


A Sky of Starlight

by JetpackSunrise



Category: Super 8 (2011)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bad Jokes, Drama, Multi, Mystery, Novelization, Romance, Science Fiction, Sequel, all that good stuff, because one kinda progressed into the other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 370,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7517734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JetpackSunrise/pseuds/JetpackSunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the weeks following that fateful night, Joe and his friends made a promise: to stick by each other, stay alive, and find the truth. How hard could it be? But one little promise can lead to some *very* interesting consequences... especially once the aliens start showing up for real. Chapters 1-21 are a novelisation of movie, while the rest are an all-new sequel story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steel and Snow

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on FanFiction, so I apologise for any formatting errors that might've appeared after transferring to AO3. I'm trying to make corrections wherever I spot them, but there's a lot of text to check. Bear with me!
> 
> I'd recommend reading from the beginning, since I've added a few scenes here and there and made some changes to the ending, but you should be able to jump in from Chapter 22 if you're only interested in the sequel stuff.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Above the main floor of the Lillian steel mill's cutting shed, there is a big green sign. It announces, in strong white letters,

**SAFETY**

_**is our primary goal!** _

**Days since last accident: 7 8 4**

Sparks fly amid a haze of smoke and sound and grime. Workers in scrappy overalls toil amidst stacks of steel, using shrieking buzzsaws to cut the metal into sections, or smelting it down with beds of orange flame. A forklift navigates the crowded factory floor, cables dangling from its prongs. The barest hint of sunlight streams in through dirty windows.

One worker carries a ladder with him. He sets it down beneath the sign and begins to climb; standing on the second-highest rung, he can just reach the letters.

He takes down the '784', and puts up a '1'.

* * *

It was a land covered in white, a dusting of powder that somehow made it seem… grimmer, colder than usual; a lack of colour, except for dull red house-brick and dark green pine. Snow covered the garden, covered the fields and the hills and the town. Clumps of it clung to the gutters and piled against the curb.

The swing creaked softly under an endless grey sky. The boy sitting on it wore dark clothes: a suit and shirt and crumpled tie. His skin was flushed from the cold, and in one hand he held the most beautiful silver locket.

Inside, it was warm, and crowded, and comforting. But he wanted none of it.

* * *

"I'm so worried for that boy." The woman looked out the window with sad blue eyes, at the child sitting in the snow.

Her husband stood behind her, a plate of food in his hand. "Joe's gonna be okay."

"But she was everything to him."

"Jack's gonna step up. He's a good man."

"But he's never had to be a father before," the woman whispered. "I don't think he… _understands_ Joe."

The mourners mingled among dreary brown curtains and fragile gloom. Some sat while others stood, illuminated by the soft glow of lamplight. The air was filled with morbid questions, idle chatter, whispered condolences.

_"How long had Elizabeth worked there? Five years?"_

_"No, I think it was six."_

A panting border collie wandered among the guests, brushing against seldom-used dresses and shiny black shoes. Its nose twitched, and it began trotting towards a group of four boys standing around a dinner table.

"What do you think was in the coffin?" one of them murmured conspiratorially. He was short, with blonde hair and rabbity teeth.

"Jesus, shut _up_."

"I'm just saying 'cause of how she died. You guys weren't wondering that?"

" _No_ , I'm eating macaroni salad."

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the clink of forks against pottery.

Then one of the other boys spoke up, chubby, dressed in an awkwardly-fitting suit. "I was wondering about that too."

"Ugh. I don't know how you guys can eat."

"Try a turkey roll and you'll discover how. They're delicious."

"Either nothing was in there, or like whatever they scraped up…"

" _Jesus_ – guys—" One of the boys looked horrified. He was tall, wearing a shirt and tie.

"I heard it crushed her completely."

"At least keep your voices down—"

"Steel beam, those things weigh a ton. Literally."

"If it had been open casket, I would not be eating right now. Despite the turkey rolls."

Across the other side of the room, the dog barked and jumped at a woman's plate.

"Lucy, down. Get down!" Its owner, a man in a black suit, patted it on the head and looked around the house. "Joe?… Anyone seen Joe?"

Nobody had.

"Bet Joe's not gonna want to do my movie anymore," the chubby boy said sadly.

"Why?"

"Why do you _think_ why? The story, it's about the living dead—"

"His mother's not a zombie," one of them interrupted. Pale, dark sweater.

"But she's dead, shithead."

There was a short pause.

"Hey, these turkey rolls are pretty good."

"Told you."

* * *

Snow. He sat on the swing, surrounded by it, kicking it with his feet. The locket was cold in his hands. Behind him, a spindly oak clutched at the sky with dark, dead fingers.

Then... the throaty rumble of a car engine. He glanced up the hill and saw an old yellow Skylark winding its way down the asphalt, shattering the silence.

The boy looked on dully, long brown hair falling across his brow.

The car stopped outside the house. _His_ house. A man climbed out as it sputtered to a halt, dressed in a woolen black coat, tall, well-built, with stringy blonde hair. He walked along the drive and up the stairs to their front door, head bowed, with only the barest glance at the boy sitting on the swing.

The man smoothed his hair back and walked inside. The door swung shut with a loud creak. In the distance, a bird sang.

Muffled voices.

"I just want to talk to you, Jack-"

"Get him out of here."

"Would you just wait a minute? WAIT!"

Inside the house, something fell to the floor with a clang. The boy looked up.

"Jack! Jack, just let me-"

"No. Get out!"

The door was kicked open. Two men tumbled out of it, the blonde-haired one being pushed along in front, struggling against the handcuffs that held his arms behind his back. Their feet scraped through the snow.

"I knew this was a mistake," his father growled.

"Jack, I… Jack – augh!"

He pulled open the door of the police car in the driveway shoved the new arrival inside. The boy watched impassively, surrounded by quiet houses and old parked cars.

His father shut the door, panting with barely-suppressed rage. He looked, saw his son on the red-painted swingset.

"Joseph, I'll be home soon."

He swung into the driver's seat and reversed out of the driveway, tires squealing, sirens flashing red and blue.

The boy watched them go.

Then he blinked, and snapped the locket shut, waiting for summer.


	2. The Wife

  _Four months later..._

* * *

Four months after that snowy day, school was done, and it was _awesome._ Students streamed through the doors of Lillian Middle School, pulling bikes off the racks, buses rumbling out of the parking lot as the dark brick walls echoed with laughter. A high-flying American flag flapped in the stiff breeze. _'HAVE A GREAT SUMMER!'_ the noticeboards announced. Girls hugged each other goodbye while most of the boys just ran, happy to be free.

Joe Lamb pushed through the crowd outside, his schoolbag draped over one shoulder, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. His cherubic face was framed by messy brown hair, and he grinned ridiculously as he looked around for—

"Oh my god that was the longest day EVER!"

—Charles Kaznyk, his best friend, who suddenly appeared out of the crush. Charles was a bigger kid who'd always been afflicted by childhood chubbiness (plus a rainbow-striped shirt that didn't do him any favours). He fell in step beside Joe and slapped a spiral notebook into his hands. "Here."

Joe squinted in the sunshine. "What's this?"

"New scene, check it out. Let's hit the 7'."

He scanned the pages as they walked across the parking lot, surrounded by girls in summer dresses and boys in sweaty shirts. "You hear Martin barfed in the hall?"

"I know – does that guy ever _not_ barf? Keep reading."

"I am reading."

"Not carefully," Charles said impatiently. "Focus, this is important."

Joe's gaze caught an unexpected addition. "Detective Hathaway has a wife now?" he asked, puzzled.

"I don't know. I think it might make a better movie… a better storyline, and production value."

"Hey! Guys!" The pair became a trio as Cary joined them, a short kid with wavy blond hair, buck teeth and a wonderfully manic expression that never seemed to fade. "Guys! Martin barfed _all_ over his locker today. It was the grossest one _yet_ —"

"Oh my god, shut _up_ ," Charles retorted.

"—after he ate two boxes of Mike and Ikes. I've never seen so many colours in my life!"

Joe couldn't help but smile. Walking through the parking lot, ears filled with whooping and hollering, sun beating down upon his shoulders with two of his best friends, it felt… _right_. Awesome. Perfect. It wasn't a feeling he had very often in the last few months. _Sometimes, life is pretty great. Just try and remember that, alright?_ He turned back to Charles' notebook. "So who's gonna play the wife? Jen?"

"No WAY. I told you what she did with my top hat—"

"Oh yeah, that was bad."

"What wife?" Cary interrupted.

"Alice Dainard," Charles said.

Joe paused in the middle of the road; then had to run to catch up. _What?_

"I was returning that book on codes and ciphers," Charles explained. "She was in the silent reading section. I thought, 'screw it', and asked her if she'd play Hathaway's wife."

They stopped at a gumball machine next to the local 7-Eleven. Cary bent over and slotted in a coin, the dial going _click-click-click_.

Joe stared at Charles. "Wait. You talked to Alice Dainard, _really?_ "

"You're not supposed to talk at all in the silent reading section—" Cary whispered.

"Shut up."

"—it's for _silent reading_."

Charles ignored him. "She said yes. We're filming tonight, and she's driving."

"Driving? Driving _where_?" Joe asked.

"The train depot. Didn't you read the scene I gave you?"

The trio swung through the 7-Eleven doors, into a world of bright primary colours. Excited kids sifted through tubs of candy and fridges full of ice-cream, coins jingling in pockets. Charles grabbed a pack of chewing gum from under the counter and started walking down the central aisle.

Joe frowned. "Does Alice have a licence?"

"I don't know."

"Is she old enough?"

"I don't know."

"Whose car is she taking… Are you making this up?"

Charles sighed. " _Jesus_ , freakshow, she offered to drive and I accepted." He fished a couple of chocolate bars out from a cardboard box.

Cary examined his gumball critically, then he snatched the notebook from Joe's hands. "Can I see those?"

"Was she nice?" Joe asked. "Why is she doing this? I don't understand – we don't even _know_ her."

"Maybe she just wants to be in good movie. Did you ever think of that?" Charles rolled his eyes.

"I don't think that's what it is…"

"Joe, I've been working on this movie for months; I'm just trying to make it good–"

Cary snorted. "Hathaway's married now? Really?"

Charles retrieved his script pages with a glare and began rifling through a shelf of Pringles. A harried-looking mom strode past, boxes of cereal under each arm, followed by some giggling pre-schoolers. The arcade machine at the back of the store beeped and blooped.

Suddenly, Joe appeared at the end of the shelf. "What book was she reading?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"…What?"

"In the silent reading section, what book was Alice reading?"

"Who gives a rat's ass what she was reading?" Charles leaned in close, getting desperate. "The festival deadline is in a week, and my movie's _gotta_ be great."

* * *

Darkness. Gloomy, grainy darkness.

Then light – a door opens and a figure appears, standing in silhouette.

The light reveals an old warehouse, dirty and cobwebbed, crowded with crates, barrels, old machinery. The figure is a young detective, wearing glasses and a trenchcoat that's slightly too big. Tall for his age. Strong jaw and cheekbones. He turns on his flashlight and sweeps it across the area, and for a moment it flares across the lens.

Slowly, the detective steps into the spooky space, accompanied by a low, droning hum. Then, as he walks, another sound – a strange slither – and he shines his flashlight. He watches, waits. Tense. The camera swings to follow his gaze, cutting through the thick dust in the air. Before him lies an office door, slightly ajar. On it is a DANGER sign: ' _no smoking, matches, or open lights'._

The detective is still. Nervous. He watches the door, as if waiting for it to open. Then, something snarls! The camera swings behind him to the source of the noise and creeping up is a child-like terror – wild-eyed, open-mouthed – and before he can react it leaps at him! He staggers back, flashlight falling to the ground. The detective struggles desperately, his assailant scratching, growling, pressing him against the bare brick wall. A close-up of the terror's face; it's a zombie, with whited eyes and hungry, bloody lips. (The zombie also has braces… but the camera keeps them out of focus).

Wide shot: the detective struggles, teeth bared, hands pushing the creature's shoulders. He pulls a gun from his pocket but the zombie snatches at it and the weapon drops onto the floor. Cutaway to the gun, which skitters along the concrete. The detective spins away, holding the zombie at bay. The camera moves with the struggling figures and the zombie growls again. Its eyes are… disturbing. Close-up: three sharp nails, embedded in a beam. The detective notices, grits his teeth then shoves the zombie backward, slamming its head into the wall exactly where the nails would be.

_Thwack!_ The camera pulls back. Sees the zombie lie still. The detective backs away – panting, horrified, but triumphant. Cut back to the zombie, which gurgles terribly as syrupy-looking blood begins to dribble from its mouth, staining its checkered shirt, dripping to the floor with a gentle spatter.

The image froze; then abruptly went white. In the background Charles' film reel spun to a stop, clicking and flickering.

Joe turned away from the projector, smiling appreciatively. "That was a REALLY good zombie murder." _Seriously, it looks like we really_ did _stuff Cary's head full of nails._

"Yeah, but it's not a – thank you for that – it's not a _story_ yet," Charles insisted. He got up from his desk, snatched an old shirt from where it hung in the window. Brightness suddenly filled the bedroom. "Older kids are entering this film festival, fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, who have better stories and…"

A box clattered to the floor. Joe winced.

"…and cars and production value. I've got _nothing_."

Mrs Kaznyk's voice echoed through the door. " _Charles, dinner!_ "

"I'm coming!…" Charles rummaged through the blankets on his bunk bed, tossing old magazines over his shoulder. "There's this article I want you to read. It explains everything about stories."

Pencil sketches and movie posters plastered the bedroom walls: _Earthquake,_ _Dawn of the Dead,_ Michael Myers in _Halloween._ The desk was loaded with a whole mess of boyish gear, from stereo speakers and scout badges to magic kits and telescopes. A creaking shelf in the corner held schoolbooks and battered boardgames. Strips of film hung from a stretched piece of elastic.

Now Charles was lying on the floor, searching through years of accumulated junk. Joe ambled over. "…I just don't understand how the wife helps make it a story," he said cautiously.

"Jesus, this is what I've been explaining. That scene we're filming tonight, where the wife is telling the detective that she's scared for him, that she loves him—"

" _Charles, come on, move it!_ " Another voice through the door. " _And wash your hands this time!_ "

Joe smiled distantly. "I can't believe you talked to Alice Dainard."

"I'm coming!… So when he investigates the zombie stuff, you FEEL something." He found the magazine and stood up, brushing his knees. "You don't want him to die because they love each other. That make sense?"

It was quiet for a moment.

"…Alice Dainard, that's _awesome_."

Charles shook his head. "You're impossible."

" _CHARLES, NOW!_ "

"God mom, I'm COMING!" He took a deep breath, looked Joe in the eye. "Midnight, okay? Don't forget."

Joe wrenched his thoughts back to the present. Charles slapped the magazine into his hand and he held it against his chest.

"I won't."

* * *

In the Kaznyk living room, everything was chaos. Half-a-dozen siblings crowded around, lured close by the rising smell of shepherd's pie, and by the kitchen bench, Mrs Kaznyk argued with her _very_ pretty eldest daughter about parties and the length of her tube top.

"It's not fair that I can't go to Wendy's," Jen said sulkily. "Every SINGLE person will be there except me!"

"Well, then every single person can tell you how it was."

Her mouth fell open in astonishment. "Mom—"

"It's your turn to babysit," Mrs Kaznyk said firmly.

"Why can't I switch with Charles?"

"Maybe because you crushed Charles' top hat. You ever think of that?" he replied from across the room, emerging from the hallway with Joe in tow.

"Oh really? Well guess what, we're _switching_ ," his sister hissed.

"Oh really? Cause guess what, no we're not." He imitated her voice as stupidly as possible.

"That's enough!" Mrs Kaznyk interrupted. "Charles, take this to the table. Benji, time for dinner." Suddenly, she noticed Joe standing at the back of the room. A smile swept across her face. "Hey Joe. Take a seat, we have lots of food," she said brightly.

He shook his head. "No, I'm okay, really. Thank you though."

Mr Kaznyk carried a stack of plates over to the table, waved at his middle two children. " _Move the puzzle, get the napkins. Come on._ _"_ The youngest got up from her position in front TV and clicked through a battered plastic photoviewer; another threw bits of cereal up into the air, catching them in his mouth. _"Stop it!"_

"See you tomorrow Charles," Joe said with a slight grin.

"Later days," his friend replied. Half a corncob was already propped between his teeth.

Mr Kaznyk saw him leaving, and added, "There's always a place for you here, Joe. You know that."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

As he walked out the door, Mr Kaznyk shared a worried glance with his wife. Their six children, however, were too busy to notice, shouting and arguing as they always did when they gathered round the dinner table.

* * *

Outside, it was blissfully quiet. No, not blissfully; _sadly_ quiet. Joe missed that constant flood of activity, the hectic stream of emotions and chatter, even if… even if he knew it wasn't for him. _Instead, I've got a quiet street. A dark house. An empty twilight town._

Which could be nice, in its own way… and, being an only child, he was kind of used to it. A song played inside his head, one he always thought of in these moments – a simple piano melody above aching strings. He could never remember where he'd heard it from.

Joe pushed his bike out of the Kaznyks' driveway and started the short trip back home; he lived barely fifty metres from Charles, at the other end of Crystal Lane. He rode past finely-mowed lawns and modest houses, past parked cars and dangling telephone wires. Shadows crept across the land, banished the by light that burned through shuttered windows. As the sun set, peeking between the steel mill's distant smokestacks, the scene became oddly beautiful. Grey haze shimmered and flowed, Lillian's lifeblood. The only reason people came to this particular part of the world.

The chain rattled beneath his feet. Pink clouds streaked against a greying sky.

* * *

The house was silent as he entered. Dark. Melancholy.

"Dad?" He glanced in the kitchen, saw nothing but wet dishcloths and a half-empty beer bottle. Moving back through the entrance hall, into the living room, still nothing.

"Dad?"

Just old armchairs, old bookshelves, empty vases. A winter coat on the rack. Good china hiding in oaken cupboards. Their TV glowed gently in the gloom.

_"…that possibility with an announcement that, while it is not likely, the potential is there for the ultimate risk of a meltdown at the Three Mile Island atomic power plant outside Harrisburg, Pennsylvania…"_

He walked through the living room, shoes scraping against the carpet, past his father's study, down the hallway with its framed pictures of old, sweet memories. Something twitched inside his deep brown eyes.

Suddenly, he heard someone sniff.

Joe peered around the bathroom door. Saw him sitting on the edge of the bath, head in his hands. Scrambled for something to say but before—

His father looked up, eyes wet. "Hey."

Joe took a sharp breath.

"I'll be out in a minute." Jack Lamb sniffed again, stood up, and pushed the door shut.

"… _Robert Schakne reports from Washington. According to the government's top officials…"_

* * *

Carol's Diner stood at the corner of Harwood and Fifth, right in the centre of town. Spotlights lit up fake granite walls, glinted off the damp night streets. A red neon sign in the window announced 10-cent slices of pizza. Inside, it was quiet as always. Fairy lights spiralled round the polished wooden banisters and scratched leather seats. An old pop song played from a distant jukebox.

Joe sat with his father at a corner table, which held a only a beer, a glass of milk, and grilled cheese sandwich which didn't taste of much.

People had always said that he looked more like his mother than his father. Jack's combed black hair, those serious eyes that stared out from beneath dark brows, the broad shoulders and tanned arms _…_ they were at odds with the pale-faced boy that sat beside him. Even when dressed casually, as he was now, he still carried himself like a police officer.

Jackson Lamb took a brochure from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of his son.

"It's a six week program. Hands on training with college coaches." His voice was kind. "You'd like it. I know I did."

Joe looked at the brochure, unblinking. "I thought I was gonna have the summer for myself—"

"Things have obviously changed for us." His mouth twitched. "And it'd be good for you to spend some time with kids who don't run around with cameras and monster makeup."

Jack took a sip of his beer. Joe unfolded the brochure. _'Hewitt Baseball Camp is an intensive fundamental training program. We are not a team-oriented competitive environment. We teach fundamentals in a fun, disciplined, non-competitive atmosphere. After attending out program, young baseball players are better suited to…'_ Rows upon rows of smiling kids stared at him from the glossy paper.

"I _have_ to help Charles finish his movie," Joe said insistently, looking at his father's face.

Jack gave an almost inaudible grunt. He swallowed, searching for somewhere to put his gaze. "I've got nothing against you friends, I like your _friends_ ," he began. "'Cept for Cary, who can't seem to stop lighting things on fire. But… you'd like it there. It's what we both need."

They sat together in silence. An uncomfortable silence, filled with twitches and little glances and things left unsaid. Hidden in Joe's palm was a silver locket.

His father saw it there, glinting silver, and turned away with a sudden burst of sadness.


	3. Waiting for a Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wondered about how much of Joe's 'thoughts' to include, especially in the scenes where he's alone; obviously, internal dialogue is something that suits books better than movies. I guess I'll find the right balance as I go! Another semi-interesting issue is that the film's dialogue has a really fast, kinetic pace to it (because, well, teenagers talk like that), which is difficult to capture in writing. 
> 
> …anyway, I'll stop rambling now. Enjoy.

Outside, the sky was dark and full of stars. Inside, the old clock radio said 12:02, and a late-night Sherlock Holmes serial echoed from its speakers: _"But they offered you no real proof he was alive. And you didn't, so the decision was made. Leave the past alone, Martha."_

" _I can't... well, how much would a ton of gold be worth today?"_

Amidst the messy sprawl of a boy's bedroom, a thin paintbrush dabbed delicately against a resin model, adding blood-red details to its lips. Joe peered through a thick magnifying glass as he worked, one hand propped against his forehead. The model was of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It brushes of all sizes lay on the shelf above his desk, next to more models – a bandaged mummy, a shiny blue Mustang, Dr Jekyll mid-transformation, a knight with a red lance. A dozen jars of paint lay scattered across sheets of newspaper. The only light shone from a sputtering desk-lamp.

It seemed as if Joe was concentrating, but his thoughts were far, far away (in another galaxy, perhaps).  _Seriously, I can't_ _wait until Star Wars 2 comes out_ _…_ _Hey, I wonder if the Death Star counts as a 'shooting star'? Because then I could totally make a wish, and I'm pretty sure I deserve some wishes after that last biology report._ _But what to wish for?_

There was the promise of endless summer, of warm grass and blue skies and late nights and (best of all) no homework. There were his friends, and anticipation for a night-time adventure. There was that sick, uncertain, _helpless_ feeling that bubbled up whenever he thought of stupid Hewitt Baseball Camp, casting a shadow over everything.

And there was his father, who tried hard, he really did, but _…_

 _He_ _only understands the kid which HE was thirty years ago. The kid who likes baseball, and has cool friends, and goes to camp every summer. He can't understand the one right in front of him, the one who_ _who likes making models and movies and gets stupid C-minuses for his biology reports._ That was how it had always been these past few months: two strangers living in the same house, orbiting each other like distant stars. Drawn together, once, by… someone. Now, achingly different.

He missed her smile.

He scratched his neck, tilted his head. _There_ _also a girl, though. A beautiful, radiant, amazing girl, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Someone so incredible that she makes your breath jump every time she—_

_Come on, focus. You'll mess up the colours._

He added a layer of green to the Hunchback's chest and stared critically at its distorted features, trying to ward off tiredness.

Suddenly, the walkie-talkie on his desk squawked to life. He jumped.

Charles' voice, nervous, excited: _"Okay, it's time. Don't get caught. Over."_

"I won't. Over."

Joe stowed his paintbrush and clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt. He leaned over his bed, grabbed his schoolbag and a small red toolbox, then tiptoed out of his room as quickly as he could, a grin plastered across his face.

* * *

Five boys sat on the curb next to Charles' house, singing along (terribly) to _My Sharona_. In addition to Joe, Charles, and Cary, there was Preston, a bony, pale-skinned kid with a sharp voice and slightly girly eyelashes, and Martin, even taller, who wore thick glasses and a costume-store trenchcoat under a mop of combed brown hair.

 _"Ba-ba-ba-ba-bump bump, bump bump ba-ba-bump."_ Crickets chirped in the warm summer's night night, providing accompaniment. Preston mimed thrashing on a guitar while Cary whipped his hair back and forth (every now and then scratching at the burn wrap on his wrist). Joe tapped his foot to the a-capella beat, a bag of Twizzlers on his knee. _"_ _When you gonna give me some time, Sharona? Ooh you make my motor run, my motor run…_ _"_

They trailed off, slightly awkwardly.

"Wanna hear something gross?" Charles asked.

"I do," Cary said eagerly.

Martin frowned. "No please, if you're really asking—"

"I sneezed so hard yesterday I shat my pants."

There was an immediate explosion of disgusted groans.

"I debated telling you."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

"That's called a 'sharteeze' by the way," Preston added.

"Well, then I totally sharteezed in my pants.

"That's _exactly_ what I'm talking about," Cary said, shaking his head. "The world is crazy, there's a name for everything."

Charles grinned. "Twizzler me."

One was already dangling from Joe's lips; he held out another in front of Charles' face, who snatched it up a second later. The boys were dressed warmly for a night outdoors, Charles in the crumpled yellow jacket he always wore, Joe in a navy blue, open-necked jumper.

"Wait, so guys – people are turning into zombies because of the chemical factory, right?" Martin whispered in the sudden quiet.

"Awwww."

"Oh my _god_."

" _Wow_."

Charles groaned with the rest of them. "I don't see how the guy playing Detective Hathaway can ask where the zombies are coming from. _Jesus_."

Martin frowned. "Well, technically Hathaway hasn't even—"

"Shut up." Charles pegged something at him, and everyone collapsed into a fit of giggles.

"Was that a _rock_?"

"…It was a _Twizzler_!"

"Dude, where'd it go?"

Charles half-choked on his own Twizzler while Martin sulked beside him.

"Another classic from 'Smartin'," Cary giggled, patting him on the back.

"I told you, I don't like it when you call me that," Martin hissed.

"I'm sorry, Smartin."

Suddenly, their faces brightened as a beam of light hit the curb.

"Hey, guys, look. Look!" Joe pointed. The group turned as one, caught in the glare of approaching headlights and the distinctive rumble of a car engine. The source was a battered yellow Buick Skylark, black racing stripe running down its centre, which for some reason caused a flicker of _deja-vu_ in Joe's brain.

"It's okay, Smartin," Cary whispered.

"Shut up."

" _Bump bump ba-ba-bump…_ " The boys hefted their bags and walked across the grass, meeting the car as it squeaked to a stop. Inside, sitting behind the wheel, was _…_

A confident, carefree figure _carved_ out of girlhood prettiness – thin lips and rounded cheekbones framed by long blonde hair. Joe's heart leapt. _Ohmygodit'sreallyher_ —

"Hey Alice," Charles said nervously.

She pushed open the passenger door and leaned back, staring at them with unreadable blue eyes. Stared for a moment too long.

"Joe _Lamb_?" she asked suddenly. Warily.

"Yeah?"

"What the hell's he doing here?"

"Makeup, sound and special effects," Charles explained, even more nervously.

"He's the Deputy's kid!"

"So what?"

Joe smiled dreamily. "You knew that?"

"Charles, I don't have a licence. I can't drive with him."

"…You want Joe to stay behind? I guess—"

"It's too late! He's seeing me in the car right now!" she yelled back, disgusted.

There was a pause. The crickets chirped.

Then: "You can trust me," Joe said quietly.

Alice just glared at him.

"My dad will never know. I won't – I won't tell him anything." He gave her the most earnest, trustworthy look he could muster. His face was hot, his heart thumped in his chest. _Please._

She looked away. The others waited in silence. Then, gradually, her expression softened – just a little.

She sighed, slapped her hands on the wheel. "Get in."

Joe grinned.

* * *

The Skylark zoomed through the night, leaving town, purring along a deserted forest road. Six kids were crammed inside, four in the back, two in front, squished against fake leather upholstery with bags of gear. About four different conversations were occurring at once, above the strains of _Bye Bye Love_ playing on the stereo. " _Byeeee, byeeee, love_ _…_ _b_ _yeeee, byeeee, sweet caress…"_

"So I wrote a couple of new lines," Charles announced. "Can I show you?"

Alice took her eyes off the road for a moment. "What?"

" _New lines_? Charles, do I have new lines?" Martin seemed even more annoyed-slash-petrified than usual.

"Shut up. There aren't a lot—"

"Guys, I'm sorta trying to drive."

The car swung around a bend. "I'm impressed at your driving," Preston murmured quietly.

There was an unusual, electric energy in the air; Joe was trying his best not to stare. Cary leaned forwards to mess with the radio but Alice quickly moved his hand away.

"Stop."

"You know the first place I'm gonna drive when I get my license?" Cary said. "New Castle, Pennsylvania. Fireworks capital of America."

Charles ignored him, turned back to Alice. "Do you know what'd be great? Is if you could cry during the scene. Can you do that?"

She shook her head, slightly irritably. "No."

"Wait, so I don't have new lines, right?" Martin asked. "Because I _just_ learned these."

" _Shut up._ "

"I have never been a passenger in a vehicle without an adult driving. I'm unresolved as to how I feel about it," Preston said.

From the back seat, Joe offered her another Twizzler. "Want one?"

After a moment's pause, Alice grabbed it, then stuck it in her mouth. She glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, hazel eyes framed by long blonde hair.

" _Bye, bye, love,_

_Bye, bye, sweet caress…"_

They whooshed past a solitary Kelvin gas station, dipping into the darkness beneath a blanket of stars.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the car was trundling along on bumpy dirt track, cutting through a wide, rolling field dotted with low bushes and fences. A single train-track ran through the grass, rails glowing silver in the moonlight. Lillian's distant streetlights twinkled on the horizon.

In the middle of the field was the old town train station, a two-room weatherboard construction mounted on a wooden platform. It wasn't used very often these days but was still well-maintained; this late in the evening the place was deserted, the ticket office closed. Ivy curled around the edges of the platform, creeping up wooden railings, onto the benches which lined the perimeter of the building. A couple of spotlights hung from the gutters, flaring in the night.

The Skylark stopped by the station in a cleared patch of grass, and the group tumbled out in a whirlwind of dust and laughter. Cary ran around the back and opened the trunk, pulled out his schoolbag as Alice held the doors. Martin, with script in hand, yelled after his friend. "Charles! Charles, man, do I have new lines or not? Oh no NO—" The wind snatched the papers from his fingers and sent them soaring across the field.

"Well, you just lost all your new lines, Martin," Preston deadpanned. Joe smiled, the strong breeze whipping his hair round his eyes, and they gathered their equipment – tripod, camera, cables, bags – while Martin chased after his fleeing swarm of paper.

"Guys, there's an electrical outlet up here!" Charles was already up on the station platform.

" _Hey, Charles! Charles, do I have new lines?_ "

"No! But you can pick up some stuff." He knelt and framed a shot with his hands – looking southward, following the train tracks across the field. "This is gonna be great!" he shouted, grinning wildly. "Get the lights and camera set up on that end, we'll shoot this direction first!"

Joe trudged up the stairs to the station, carrying his schoolbag and toolbox. Charles stood up, started walking back across the platform. "Joe, get the mike plugged in and make sure the _new_ batteries are in the camera—"

"Okay."

"—BEFORE you do the makeup."

"Okay. Okay." He shuffled past Alice, who watched curiously.

Martin leaned against a pillar, rehearsing his lines. Upon his head was a rather dapper trilby hat and, grudgingly, they'd all been forced to admit that he looked pretty good in costume. His trenchcoat flapped in the wind. "Sweetheart, this is my job. I have no choice. It's nothing that you need to worry about – what am I supposed to do, go to Michigan with you? _…_ Sweetheart, this is my job."

Cary suddenly seized the top sheet and threw it into the wind. Martin stared in horror. "No no no CARY—"

Behind them, Preston held the camera up to his face, squinting through the eyepiece; it was a handheld Super-8 model. Cary sat down on a bench nearby, then dug around in his bag, chattering excitedly. "I took apart two packs of cherry bombs and made my own M-80. Do you, do you wanna see it?"

"Your obsession with fireworks – and I'm saying this as a friend – _concerns_ me. And my mother."

"Well you're a pussy. And your mom has one."

"I realise that."

Martin returned a few moments later. "Bogus, Cary," he muttered darkly.

Preston ignored them and clicked the lens into place. Joe handed him the new batteries, then went to connect the microphone, untangling the twisted mess of cables.

"Martin! I wrote a new line," Charles called out. He got up, handed a notebook to his leading man.

"What? No." Martin shook his head firmly.

"What do you mean 'no'? It's awesome. Okay, so you know that part when…"

Alice, understandably, was slightly bewildered by the hive of activity, and Joe led her over to a quiet corner. He opened his toolbox and unfolded the trays inside. It was filled with little containers: brushes, sponges, wax, gum, cotton balls, jars of paint. _M_ _y box of makeup and magic tricks. I wonder what my dad would think if he saw all this. I wonder what_ she—

He picked out a makeup sponge, shivering with nervousness and disbelief and excitement.

 _"I just finished memorising this line!"_ Martin was saying

 _"It's not gonna be hard. So, you know that part when you say_ — _"_

_"Well, where'd the other line go?"_

"Uh, do you mind?" he murmured, staring at her face.

She shook her head. "No."

He rubbed a bit of foundation on the sponge and dabbed it across Alice's cheek.

_"It's gone! This one's better."_

_"The old one flowed better."_

_"No, it didn't."_

"Here, I'll…" She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, then tied it into a scrappy bun. "There."

"Thanks." Joe smiled, and wondered how the hell his life had led him to this moment.

* * *

Over on the bench, Martin and Charles kept arguing. "Now I'm not prepared!"

"Look, it flows better," Charles assured him, patting his shoulder. "'Honey, I love you.' 'I love you too.' See? It flows."

Martin stared at his script dejectedly. "I _know_ , but you keep changing things and making it difficult for me."

* * *

The sponge swept over Alice's skin, smoothly, delicately. It wasn't actually improving things much but Joe didn't particularly care. A row of red signal-lights curved into the distance behind them, dots in the darkness.

" _It's… Martin, it's simple. 'I love you too.' It's like, four words!"_

_"Four words that I don't have memorised!"_

Alice glanced down as Joe's fingers brushed against her chin. She swallowed.

"My dad works at the mill," she said, almost too quiet to hear. Suddenly her eyes were staring directly into his; challenging, as if watching for a response.

_"Martin. Can you say, 'I love you?'"_

_"No."_

_"Say it!"_

_"No!"_

_"Say it!"_

Joe let his hand fall. His face was still, expressionless, except for a short intake of breath. But inside, he was—

The moment passed.

"Uh, could you close your eyes please?" He grinned nervously.

"Oh. Yeah."

* * *

Two minutes later, everyone was ready. Alice and Martin stood in front of the station office, next to an old pin-up board. Martin wore his full costume, the beige trenchcoat and hat with a poorly-knotted tie; Alice wore a long green coat over her jeans, a purse and a gold locket around her neck. Towards the edge of the platform, two spotlights balanced upon a thin metal stand, a daisy-chain of cables leading to a distant power outlet. Their boom mike (a.k.a. microphone taped to a broom handle) lay on the railing.

"So the scene is very emotional," Charles explained. "Alice, Mrs Hathaway really doesn't want her husband to keep investigating these zombie murders. You really hate it—"

"Yeah, I know. We read it. We get it." Alice cut him off.

Charles stepped back, a bit hurt. "God, I'm just directing." He moved around the set, framing another shot over Alice's shoulder. "Martin. _Martin_ , get in position. You need to reassure her – wait. Do you know what 'reassure her' means?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Okay. We're gonna shoot on Alice's side first. Okay, Preston, so a few seconds after I say 'action' I want you to walk over to the payphone, make the place look like it's busy." He picked up the receiver and pretended to dial a number. "Hello? Hello?"

"I _know_ what that looks like," Preston said exasperatedly.

_BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!_

Everyone jumped. Sparks erupted from the bag by Cary's feet, shooting into the night – firecrackers.

"Asshole!" Charles stalked over to him. "Could you stop blowing shit up for two seconds and deal with the camera?"

" _God,_ sorry man," Cary replied. He was still holding his lighter, smiling widely.

Charles sighed in defeat, then turned back to his two actors. "Okay you guys, let's rehearse this. But remember, save the real performance for when we're filming."

Everyone nodded. Their director held up a hand.

"Here we go. Positions – _aaannnd_ – action!"

"So, I'm going to stay here and investigate," Martin began, reading from the script in his hand. "I think it'd be safer if you left town for a couple of days." He looked into Alice's eyes. The police badge on his lapel glinted in the spotlights.

"John, I don't like it. This case, these murders."

In the background, Preston walked up to the payphone and began talking into the receiver, suitcase in hand.

"Well what am I supposed to do – go to Michigan with you?"

"Mackinaw Island's beautiful this time of year." Alice's voice was soft, heartfelt; Martin was getting over some of his awkwardness too.

"Sweetheart, this is my _job_."

"…The dead, coming back to life? I think you're in danger."

"I have no…" Martin turned the page. "I have no choice."

"You do have a choice. We all do." Suddenly, Alice's voice began cracking up, oddly vulnerable.

And that was _it_. Joe stared, open-mouthed. Charles brushed a mosquito from his ear, stunned. Transported. Preston gave up 'looking busy' and stopped to watch like the rest of them.

"…John. I've never asked you to stop. I've never asked to give up, or – walk away. But I'm asking you now." She looked up. Eyes wet. "Please. For me. Don't go… don't leave me. I need to know this isn't the last time I'm going to see you. I…"

Her lips trembled on the verge of tears. "…I just love you so much."

Up on the station platform, Martin stared at her for the longest moment. Eventually, he managed: "I love you too."

Joe swallowed. Right at that moment, it felt like _magic._

Then Alice stepped back, a critical expression on her face. "Was that good?" she asked.

Preston gazed at her like a startled rabbit. Martin wiped some dust from his eye.

"Uh. Uh…" Charles began. "…Yeah. Yeah, that was um… That was great," he murmured.

Then suddenly, in the distance, echoing through the night: _B_ _raaaaahhhhmmm!…_ The horn of an oncoming train.

Charles ran to the end of the platform, saw its lights swiftly approaching down the tracks. His face lit up. " _PRODUCTION VALUE!_ " he screamed.

Everyone just stared.

" _…_ Cary, you put film in the camera, right?"

" _I_ didn't put it in!"

"What? Put it in, put it in! Joe, get the mike ready! Go go go! Preston, get in costume, costume, COSTUME!"

"Okay, I will!"

There was a mad scramble of and tangled limbs and feet. A box of film was snatched off the floor; Joe swung the boom mike around, connecting the leads. Everyone swarmed around the platform, searching through their bags, juggling equipment.

"Joe, help her! Hurry up! Martin, get that tripod set up! Preston, GET IN POSITION!" Charles pointed furiously.

"I _will_ , I have to get the money—"

Alice shrugged off her coat and and stepped into a flowery dress. Joe helped her zip it up and threw a different coat on top of it, a thick brown one that was probably Mrs. Kaznyk's. "I love how calm he is," she murmured.

Joe grinned. _Yeah, he's a very relaxed guy._ Martin plonked a tripod down and set the camera on top of it, then started reading through his lines one last time.

"GO! Get these headphones ready! Martin, you _know_ your lines. Hurry! Get that camera ready! Go, go!"

"Shut up! We'll start on Alice and pan to the train, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, oh god, I hope we don't miss it—"

The tracks hummed as the train came ever-closer. Its engine rumbled in the night, getting louder, louder, and then the crossing signals began to sound: _ding dong ding dong ding dong_ —

"Shut up I am TRYING!"

"Hurry! Get that set up! Positions, positions!"

Joe held the boom mike out in front. The actors stood to attention. Charles moved out of the camera's field of view, tugged a pair of headphones onto his head. "Ready! Start filming – be _extra_ loud when the train passes by. Oh god, I hope it stops."

Cary snapped the film casing shut, put both hands on the small black camera. Inside, a reel of Super 8 began to whirr.

"Here we go. Aaannd… action!"

"Look – I'm going to stay here and investigate. I think it'd be safer if you left town for a couple of days," Martin said. His voice was loud, firm. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

"John, I don't like it. This case. These murders." Alice spread her hands. Behind her, Preston walked into scene and dialled the payphone.

"What do you want me to do, go to Michigan with you?"

"…Mackinac Island's beautiful this time of year.

 _Braaahhm BRAAAHHHMMM._ _Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong_ —

The train was nearly at the station, a travelling island of thunder. Its headlights sparkled off the tracks ahead, coming closer, closer, closer – until suddenly the engine _roared_ past them, then the first carriage, the second, fourth, fifth – big hunks of metal sweeping through the darkness. _Click-clack. Click-clack._ It wasn't slowing glanced at the blur of machinery, felt the wind from it ruffle his jacket.

"The dead coming back to life? I think you're in danger!" Alice had to shout over the din of the engine.

"I DON'T HAVE A CHOICE!" Martin screamed back.

"You do have a choice! We all do!"

Charles' frown was gradually turning into a smile; their world had become a camera, two actors and a speeding train. _Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack._

"John, I've never asked you to stop! I've never asked you to give up or walk away!"

The horn beeped again, echoing, fainter now that the engine had passed them by. Joe looked behind him and saw… a car. A white pickup truck, speeding down the dirt track which they'd driven only ten minutes before. _Who'_ _s that?_

"…But I'm asking you now!" Alice was saying, shaking her head desperately. "Please, for me – just don't go back! Don't leave me! I need to know this isn't the last time I'm going to see you!"

The car came to the railway crossing. Then, unbelievably, it _swung onto the tracks_ , tyres screeching, barrelling towards the oncoming train. It bounced up and down as it sped over the sleepers. The train horn sounded once more. Joe watched in horror, still holding the mike. The distance between them was closing fast and the train wasn't slowing down, a metal monster, unstoppable—

"I love you so much!"

"I love you too."

 _It's gonna crash._ "GUYS, WATCH OUT!" he yelled suddenly.

Everyone turned; Charles _glared_. "Joe, what the _hell_ are you—"

 _BA-_ BAM! Car met train. Metal screamed. The pickup exploded in a cloud of fire and flipped sideways, spinning wildly and with it there was an incredible sound, a low roar like TV static amplified a thousand times.

A split-second of chaos. The group stared, frozen in amazement and fear.

The train engine caught on a piece of wreckage and slowed suddenly, but the carriage behind it kept going and slid _upwards_ , steel crumpling, riding up the back of the engine car and twisting free like a warm Twizzler. Wheels screeched. A shower of sparks erupted from the carriage behind, torn off the tracks and plunging into the field in a hurricane of dust and grit.

Cary broke the spell. "OH MY GOD RUN!" he shouted.

Which seemed like a sensible suggestion, so they did.


	4. The Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The train crash is a pretty epic scene, but trust me, when putting it into words you'll get sick of trying to find different ways of writing "everything explodes!" Because hey, everything does explode.
> 
> I'm also adding in deleted lines and scenes where I can, because more Super 8 could never be a bad thing.

In that moment, it was like hell on earth.

"Oh my god!"

"GO!"

A chain reaction of physics and destruction sped down the train like a demented Newton's cradle, until suddenly the carriages in front of them were buckling and warping and tearing. They began to slide off the tracks at sixty miles per hour, slewing into the grass, tearing up great chunks of dirt, spinning and impacting with great echoing _BOOMS._ Something hit the ground with a shower of sparks. Metal twisted. A cloud of fire lit up their faces, incredibly bright.

The group whipped around, started _sprinting_ to the opposite end of the station. The camera clattered to the floor, film whirring inside.

"Holy shit!"

"Go go go!"

Alice gazed into the chaos, at the last carriages of the train that were still coming up the tracks with discordant squeals. The rest of the group pelted across the platform, towards the open field; Joe stopped as he suddenly noticed her standing there, mesmerised. A hundred tons of metal was whipping through the air bare metres from her face, beginning to lift off—

" _ALICE!"_ he screamed.

She twitched and darted away behind the station building, out of view, just as the trailing carriages snaked to the left and clipped the corner of the platform. Wood burst into a swarm of splinters. A traincar flipped through the air, end over end, flying nearly vertical towards—

"Joe, let's go we have to GO!" Charles grabbed his shirt and pulled him away, after the others, all thoughts of _production value_ fled from his mind to make room for pure survival.

* * *

Preston and Martin scattered round the side of the station, debris raining down around their heads. They pushed through a clump of bushes, then dove underneath the platform to whatever shelter they could find, eyes filled with animal panic. They crawled desperately through the dirt.

"Are we alive?"

"I don't know! Just keep—"

* * *

The others sprinted across the grass. Someone screamed incoherently. The world was a blur of fire and moonlit steel, ears filled with the shriek of tearing metal. Another carriage jacknifed off the tracks and skidded along the ground beside them, sparks and dust flying, the end disappearing in a wisp of fire. Signal poles shattered like toothpicks; rails and sleepers spiralled into the night. The car crumpled like an accordion and began slewing towards the station, heading right for—

Fifty tons of steel slammed clean through the station building. Fire bloomed from every crack and crevice, exploding through the roof, through the windows, through the shattered walls. Weatherboard was reduced to splinters as the carriage flew out the other side. Under the platform, Martin and Preston were enveloped in a choking cloud of dust. Wreckage clattered to the ground, spun through the smoke. Something else went up in flames, shoving another carriage sideways, sending it tumbling end-over-end – and through it all, a constant thunder, a constant deafening _ROAR_ dotted with _cracks_ and _booms_ and _clunks_ so loud they made your ears ache.

Joe ran. Just _ran_ , arms pumping, breath searing through his lungs. Fire was everywhere, lighting up the sky. They slipped between two crumpled carriages and were blasted by a wave of heat from another explosion. Charles glanced behind him at the devastation, at the blackened ground, at the forty traincars scattered like toys across a carpet and the station that was now merely a jagged scorched foundation. For perhaps the first time in his life, he literally couldn't believe his eyes. " _I don't wanna die!"_

A cylindrical fuel car was suddenly punted by some irresistible force, skidding up another freight carriage like a ramp. A bell-like _clang_ reverberated from the steel and it soared into the air, going up in an arc, incredibly, dreamily, then inevitably coming down, down, down—

It _slammed_ into the ground in front of them, erupting in flames that flowed across the field like water. Joe stumbled, reeling from the heat. The world was silhouetted in red and black. He raised an arm to shield his face and noticed the others had disappeared, scattered by the flames. He looked over his shoulder, couldn't see them, just focused on moving his legs up and down, filled with adrenalin. _Gotta keep moving, gotta stay alive. Just RUN._ He dashed past another couple of twisted carriages, dodging jagged steel plates and snapped axles. A bit of open ground was coming up ahead.

 _Whooosh! A_ noise like a rocket lifting off; a flaming piece of debris fell through the air, followed by trails of sparks. It was like being in a movie, a friggin' summer blockbuster, except everything on the set was actively trying to kill you—

The debris _clunked_ into the dirt in front of him and he breathlessly skidded to a stop. It was box of some sort. Flames licked around its edges. Joe stared at it, saw 'EXPLOSIVES' stencilled across the metal. His eyes widened.

 _Not good._ _Not good not good not good._ He turned and backed away as fast as he could, accompanied by a soft _hisssss_ _…_

BOOOOM! A white-hot jet shot into the air, blossoming, expanding, bright as a new sun. Joe fell to the ground, shoved by a wave of force and heat, pressed his hands over his ears and just waited for it to stop. Acrid smoke filled his nostrils. He closed his eyes. _Please. Please, I can't do this. I can't_ —

 _Thunk!_ A bit of twisted doorframe bounced across the earth beside his head.

And abruptly, there was silence.

Blissful silence.

_Oh my god._

Joe felt his greasy hair, felt the ash that covered his arms and legs and face and just lay there in the grass, his heart beating so goddamn fast, filled with utter relief and exhaustion and…

 _THUD._ Metal shrieked. Joe looked up, took a sudden breath.

A train carriage lay on its side in front of him. Quickly, he climbed to his feet, and – it rumbled. The carriage _rumbled_ , rocking from side to side. He stared at it, open-mouthed. Suddenly, without quite knowing how, the silver locket was in his hand.

 _Thud. Thud._ The carriage moved again. There was another sound, a strange _chirping_ that echoed sharply from the steel. It was as if something was inside… _something alive_ , something trying to get out—

The carriage door abruptly exploded from its hinges, spiralling into the night. _Smack!_ It stabbed into the dirt ten metres behind him – twisted, broken, a big slab of metal, thrown like it was as light as a frisbee. Joe turned back to the carriage. Gazed at the shadowy doorway. He was breathing quickly, hyperventilating. His knees felt weak.

He waited…

…but nothing moved in the ring of wreckage.

 _Must've been the pressure_ , Joe thought to himself reassuringly. _There's nobody there._ All around him, cooling metal creaked and ticked. Distant sounds: the dying _chugs_ of the engine, the _scrick-scrick-scrick_ of wheels as they lost momentum, the hiss of steam against the grass. Upside-down traincars were scattered frighteningly around him in mountains of twisted steel. _Just another few feet and I probably_ … He swallowed. _I probably wouldn't be here. Holy_ crap _._

Gradually, the shock faded, and the fear that filled his mind was replaced by something else – concern. Worry. Panic. He looked around, but couldn't see his friends.

 _I hope they're okay._ Joe tried to reconcile that thought with the decimated wasteland, with that last glimpse of his friends entirely surrounded by fire, with that last vision of Alice standing tall before the train, her coat flapping in the gale. _I hope they're okay._

* * *

Abandoned, on its side, lying in the ruins, Charles' camera finally stopped filming with a soft _click_. The lens glittered in the firelight.

* * *

Ash and smoke billowed in the air, great choking clouds of it, filling the ember-speckled sky. The whole area around the station was just _devastated_ , scorched earth, a warzone dotted by wreckage and rubble. Torn and twisted carriages were strewn across the field. Spot fires licked at the grass. Alice's car – Alice's _father's_ car – was parked in the middle of it, miraculously undamaged except for a few dents and a broken window (and a thick new layer of dust).

Joe walked past, searching for his friends. They had to be still here, still alive, didn't they? People didn't just _die._

 _But that's not true, is it_ , a dark corner of his mind reminded him. His shoes scraped across tangled rope, trampled bushes. He almost tripped over another axle in the darkness. _Come on, think. Breathe._ He came to the train tracks, which were buckled and twisted just like everything else, clawing at the air. He grunted and climbed over them, dropped down on the other side, looking—

_"BLEEUURRGH."_

Joe's heart leapt. There they were, Martin and Preston, standing around by an upside-down freight car. He'd never been happier to see their faces. "Guys!" he shouted.

Preston whipped around. "I'm okay," he blurted, holding up one arm. "Though I think I'm having a heart attack. And I have a scrape!" He looked like a ghost, white and shellshocked.

"Martin, you okay?" Joe called out.

Martin gave him a wobbly thumbs up from where he was leaning over, vomiting. A stream of orange and white… stuff… trickled from his mouth. Half-digested carrot, plus a whole load of slimy custard—

"Joe! Oh my god." Cary appeared from the ruins with Charles in tow, walking towards them. "Guys, did you see those explosions?"

 _But there's one still missing…_ "You guys seen Alice?" Joe asked hoarsely. His skin felt kind of weird, all red and burnt.

Cary ignored him. "THAT WAS UNBELIEVABLE!" He looked a bit like a wet dog, with tangled hair and grimy cheeks, but his face glowed with excitement.

Charles just looked like hell, his jacket torn and covered in dirt. "I'm alive… I'm alive. Is anyone dead?"

Joe glanced around. He squinted, trying to see past all the smoke and the wreckage. Then he looked down, and saw – blood. Red, wet blood, slicking the sharp edge of the train car a few metres in front of him.

"Why did this happen?" Martin was saying. "It's like _…_ "

"Martin, it's gonna be okay," Charles said reassuringly.

"No it's _not_ , dude. _Look at this_." He'd seen the blood too.

"Oh god."

The boys hurried over to the half-buried train car. Shards of wood and dented steel crunched beneath their feet. The carriage appeared to have been _jammed_ into the ground, the visible end warped almost beyond recognition.

They stared at the blood, frozen, none of them daring to go closer. Cary looked horrified. Joe just looked… dead.

" _Shit shit shit shit,_ " Martin muttered.

"No," Preston breathed. "Nonono _…"_

Joe forced himself to take deep breaths. He imagined pulling away the metal, finding a finger, a scrap of a dress, tried not to—

"What's all that blood?" someone asked uncertainly.

A girl's voice.

The boys whipped around. " _Alice_?"

Somehow, it was. She climbed towards them, picking her way through the rubble. "What's the blood? Did someone get hurt?"

Charles beamed, overwhelmed with relief. Preston simply seemed flabbergasted by the whole thing. She looked almost unreal – covered in dust like the rest of them, coat almost torn in half – but she was _alive_.

 _That's all that matters_. _We're alive. What about the blood, though?_ Joe turned back to the red stain that painted the upturned carriage. He knelt in the shadows, stuck a hand inside. _I think I know what this is._ There were flames in the compartment, hot and bright, and something he could just about reach…

"What are you doing?" Cary asked worriedly. "Joe, you don't know what's under there!"

Martin tried to peer over his shoulder. "Hey, come on, don't—"

 _Got it._ His fingers closed around a handle. He stood up, turned back to the others, holding his make-up toolbox. Streaks of red syrup had dripped all over it, coating the lid and the handle and the trays inside. "It's my fake blood," he explained brightly. "It's fake!"

Preston exhaled. Charles, too, let out a breath he'd been holding. Then… something jingled in the wind, almost too quiet to hear. Alice was staring at him weirdly; Joe looked down.

_Oh._

The silver locket dangled from his hand, spinning in the firelight. He'd been gripping it so hard the chain had left marks on his fingers.

Joe stuffed it into his pocket, and tried his best to smile.

* * *

They moved through the wreckage, exploring the aftermath, looking for anything that _wasn't_ broken.

"…Guys?" Preston said nervously. "Come here, what are these things?"

"Shit! No one cares!" Martin yelled. "Look around you!"

"They're heavy, like metal. There's like a billion of them!" Charles said distantly. "They look like white Rubik's Cubes or something."

"I don't think that's what they are… They don't move."

"What is going _on_?"

"Martin, it's gonna be okay, all right?"

"Are you _serious?_ "

Scattered in the grass were hundreds of white cubes, made of… something. They felt warm, smooth, like plastic but much heavier. Each cube seemed to have been melted together from dozens of smaller ones, creating a tiny bone-white lattice only a few inches per side. Whole _crates_ of the things that had fallen out of one of the carriages; big army crates, packed with thousands upon thousands of the small pale shapes.

"What is this stuff?" Charles breathed.

Preston frowned. "Hey, don't touch it."

Behind them, Cary had climbed up the angled sides of an overturned carriage. "You guys! Get up here. You can see everything from up here!" he called out.

Joe picked one of the cubes up and slipped it into his pocket. He didn't have room in his head for another mystery, so he simply followed the others and pulled himself up onto the side of the nearest traincar, grunting with effort.

At the top, they were above most of the smoke, and Joe took a deep, clean(ish) breath. Many of the fires had flickered out, blown away by the wind; but it was incredible, how far the devastation reached. Steel had ripped like paper, melted like cheese at least a hundred metres in every direction. The skeleton of the station scratched at the moonlit skies.

It was a sobering sight. "God," Charles whispered.

Cary nodded in agreement. " _Look_ at it."

"According to my Uncle Seth," Preston announced, "an accident like this is _exceptionally_ rare."

 _Except…_ Joe remembered the pickup truck, driving along the rails. "It wasn't an accident," he said slowly.

"What?"

"There was a truck on the train tracks."

"Are you serious?"

"What, like driving on the tracks?" Charles stared at him.

Joe peered across the ruined field, scanning the wreckage for— "There." He pointed. The cab of the pickup truck lay fifty yards away from them, one half of it almost entirely pulverised, the other half tilted into the air at a weird angle.

"Oh my gosh," Cary breathed.

They stared at the truck, and wondered who'd been driving it.

* * *

"How could a pickup truck derail a train, man?" Martin asked. "That's _impossible._ "

"Obviously it isn't," Preston replied irritably.

The group approached the wreck with caution, stepping lightly across the grass. It looked as if the truck had impacted head-on; the hood was crumpled, the windshield shattered, the wheels sheared off or completely missing. And, sitting in the driver's seat…

…a man, his head resting against the steering wheel. Deep cuts sliced across his forehead. Blood had trickled down his cheeks, stained his clothes.

"Holy shit," Cary said.

"Oh my god, I know that truck," Joe murmured.

Charles crept forwards with tiny steps. "Guys… is that him?"

"Yeah. It's him," Alice said faintly.

The six of them stood there in a exhausted, battered line.

"Who?" Martin asked.

"It is. Yeah, for sure," Preston said.

"Who is it?"

"Holy _shit_."

The entire right half of the truck had been torn off, almost like it'd been cut down the middle with a table saw. Foam spewed from the seats, and shards of glass coated the earth around it. The man in the driver's seat looked almost… asleep. Stuck inside the crushed wreckage.

Alice stepped closer, strands of hair dangling in front of her face. "Dr Woodward?" she asked softly. A little scared.

Something clicked in Martin's brain. Ridiculously, he was still wearing his detective's hat. "Dr Woodward, the science guy?"

"Biology," Preston corrected.

Cary nodded. "Honours biology."

"Wow, I'm – I'm not in his class."

"We _know_."

"Just shut up, Cary."

They stared at the truck apprehensively. The doctor was a thick, heavyset man, African-American. Even though he was in his seventies, in life he would've been an imposing figure, with his shaved head and sharp brows. Joe had run into him at school a few times, and apparently he'd been a decent teacher, but the man lying limp before them looked more like some kind of nightmare _._ Inhuman.

 _A midnight trip, a train crash and now a freaking dead teacher. This is the most unreal_ —

"Remember when Old Man Woodward took your Electronic Football?" Charles whispered.

"Yeah. He put it in the dungeon and never gave it back." Cary frowned.

"The dungeon?"

"That trailer Woodward keeps in the school parking lot," Preston explained.

Alice was at the truck, now, standing right where the door would be – if it'd still had one. "Dr Woodward?" She reached out, gently nudged his hand. It was still warm. "Dr Woodward?"

 _Thunk!_ Alice jerked away as his arm dropped limply from the steering wheel, onto the truck floor. Lifeless. Then, she noticed a crumpled piece of paper; it must've fallen from the doctor's fingers. She leaned forwards cautiously and picked it up, unfolding it.

The others rushed forwards to see. It was an old, stained map: a line was drawn across it in red marker, following a curving, irregular path, annotated with scribbled notes. Numbers, place names…

"'Map of the Contiguous United States,'" Preston read aloud.

"What's the writing?" Joe asked.

"Dates and times…" Alice said, frowning.

"Guys, what's this line?"

 _Following a path_ … _Nevada to Dayton? Wait._ "It's a schedule for the train," Joe realised. "See, look—"

A shadow appeared behind the paper, a trembling hand with bloody fingers, and before they could react it suddenly, horrifyingly _ripped_ the paper away.

"AAAAAHHHH!"

" _Holy_ —"

In the darkness, Dr Woodward sat up. The cuts on his face glimmered in the firelight.

"What the… he's alive he's alive oh my god oh my god…" Martin babbled incoherently. The others simply stared in shock. Then…

" _Who are you_?" their teacher said, in a low, growling whisper. The doctor blinked slowly, turned to face them with dazed, red eyes. His nostrils flared.

Joe felt his heart pound.

"…Dr Woodward, it's me," Charles said bravely, clenching his fists. "Charles Kaznyk. From fourth period… You've been in an accident. You're gonna be okay—"

Dr Woodward's left arm twitched and somehow there was a gun in it, a huge big black revolver.

"BACK!" Cary screamed.

"Holy shit, holy shit," Charles sobbed. They stood there, half-crouching, shivering, wondering whether to stay or _get the hell away._ The doctor looked like a lunatic, a monster, a bloody, shadowy ghost.

"They will kill you," he said with utter conviction. His forehead creased in pain as he tried to lean towards them, straining against his fraying seatbelt, skin layered with sweat. "Do _not_ speak of this. Or else…" He coughed. "Or else you… and your parents… will die."

For once Cary didn't have a smartass remark. Joe just stared. _He's telling the truth. He's really telling the_ —

Suddenly, distant voices reached their ears. Lots of voices, carried by the wind.

"Guys, look," Joe whispered. Flashlights were shining across the other side of the field. Moving fast, getting brighter.

"We shouldn't be here," Alice said fearfully.

And then Dr Woodward's gun was pointed at _them_. "GO!" he roared.

They didn't need much convincing.

* * *

"Come on!" Charles shouted. "Shit, let's get the hell out of here!"

"Hurry, come on!"

"My dad's gonna de- _ball_ me!" Preston moaned.

They dashed across the grass. Twisted metal blurred on either side. They dodged past a line of wrecked carriages, vaulted over an axle. Alice skidded to a stop next to her father's car, realised the others weren't with her. "Guys, come _on_!" she yelled desperately.

Charles was sprinting up the station steps. "Grab the film!" The flashlights were closer, a _lot_ closer, bobbing up and down, and Dr Woodward's warning loomed large in their minds.

"Oh my god, oh my god…"

"Holy shit!"

Charles grabbed the camera from where it lay on the decking, miraculously still in one piece, began running back to the car.

"COME ON!" Alice yelled again. "Move your ass! Let's go, let's go!"

"Who's got the bags?"

Joe slid across the gravel and picked up his makeup box, slammed it shut. Unfamiliar voices echoed in the distance. On the platform Cary was grabbing all the bags he could find, hauling them over his shoulders. The approaching torches flickered in the corner of his eye, and when Joe squinted he thought he could see _soldiers_ —

"Get in the CAR!"

The group ran down the steps and crowded round the Skylark, yanking open the doors, chucking their gear inside with wild desperation. "They're getting closer!" Martin yelled. As doors slammed shut one by one Alice turned the key, revved the accelerator and – _vrooom!_ – reversed out of the station carpark. Tyres skidded on the dirt, kicking flaming wood into the air. They bounced on the seats, fumbling for seatbelts.

Alice grimaced, threw the car into gear. She swung the wheel around and they sped across the field, faster and faster, slipping past the wreckage, aiming for the trees and the road back home. The windscreen wipers swept back and forth, clearing the window of dust.

"Come on!"

"Go, go!"

* * *

"…Anybody get their plates?"

"I didn't get the plate. Did you get it?"

In the epicenter of the jumbled, scorching train crash, three dozen soldiers in dark green U.S. Air Force uniforms watched the fleeing car. They were led by a thick-set officer with a craggy face and oddly piercing blue eyes. A floppy colonel's cap sat upon his head; the name stitched above his breast pocket was 'Nelec.' Rapidly, the air force men spread throughout the crash site, securing the area, searching for survivors. Beams of torchlight swept across the grass.

"Any other survivors?"

"All clear!"

Nelec glanced down at the ground by his boots, and noticed a battered yellow cardboard box. He picked it up: a Kodak film canister.

That was bad. Very bad. He looked over the ruined field, suspicion in his gaze, but the unidentified yellow car had already disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

Alice drove through the night, desperately trying to keep her emotions in check. She gripped the wheel tersely, staring straight ahead. Around her, the boys were apparently calming down by yelling louder and louder, adrenaline coursing through their veins.

Charles: "Holy shit that was _insane_!"

Preston: "He had a gun! An actual physical gun! My heart is _pounding_ , that train could've _killed_ us!"

Cary, randomly: "Oh, shit!"

Charles again: "My camera's, like, shattered now…"

Martin, almost crying: "Guys, I have never had a teacher aim a GUN at me—"

Cary: "I can't believe all that just happened here! Nothing _ever_ happens here!"

Joe attempted to wipe some of the grime from his face, and his fingers turned slightly bloody from a cut he didn't even know he had. He was sitting next to Alice in front; suddenly, he noticed her shiver a little. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

"No." Her voice quivered. "But it's hard enough to drive without everyone yelling!"

 _Oh. Right._ Joe turned around. "Guys, keep it down!"

The car zoomed along the road, past the brightly-lit windows of Kelvin Gas. Alice kept looking straight ahead, lips moving silently. Charles cradled his shattered camera in his hands. Everyone still had raised voices, somehow even more panicked than before.

"'You'll die, your parents will die' – guys, this is not good information!" Preston screamed.

"Oh, shit! The focus ring fell off!"

"No one cares about your stupid camera!"

Martin just moaned. "Guys, am I the only one shaking?… And I'm also _crying_!"

Cary tapped him on the shoulder. "Joe, what was Woodward talking about?"

"I don't know, I don't know—"

"I'm never taking a train again."

Alice shook her head, trying to make herself heard above the racket. "We can't tell anyone we were here," she said firmly. "My dad can't find out I took his car… do you guys hear me?"

"It's okay," Joe replied. "We're not saying _anything_ to _anyone_."

Alice glanced at him, then back to the road. She didn't seem reassured. Her fingers twitched.

Joe turned to the rest of them. "Guys. We're not saying anything,ARE WE." It sounded like a threat.

"No."

"Nope."

"No."

"Nooo…"

"See?" he said, facing the front. "No one's gonna know. No one's saying anything."

It was quiet for a moment. The car's suspension squeaked as they drove; it sounded a whole lot worse than it had on the way to the station. Alice eye's flicked to the the rear-view mirror, dark and serious, and then, wonderfully, around the next bend, the outskirts of town began to appear out of the forest.

* * *

Alice stopped the Buick just outside Joe's yard; his father's squad car was still parked in the driveway, the windows of the house gloomy and lifeless. No one said a word as they climbed out of the car and grabbed their things from the trunk.

The sudden silence felt… weird. Tiredness and aching muscles and _reality_ began to creep in, and Joe's mind reeled as he tried to figure out exactly what'd happened in the past two hours of his life.

"Joe," Alice said suddenly. She held her hand out the window; in it was one of those strange white cubes, which had somehow fallen from his pocket.

He took it from her. "Thanks." He leaned forwards, perhaps to say something else… but she just stared at him, shaking her head.

"I never should've done this." And with that, she slid back to the steering wheel and drove off down the street, engine sputtering in the night.

Joe watched her go, holding the cube to his chest, filled with an undefinable sense of sadness. The others stood behind him, dirty, grimy, haunted, each and every one of them, following the car with their eyes as it sped away.


	5. The Morning After

_Who am I?_

_I enjoy watching TV, and playing with my dog. I care about my grades, kind of (I_ _used to care more). I live in a small Midwest town whose only redeeming features are some decent national parks and the state's biggest steel mill._ _I'm a simple kid who goes to a boring school with a bunch of uncool friends who like making movies more than they like real life. Because…_

_Because we have dreams, like Charles. Because Preston thinks it's fun. Because it means Martin can actually BE someone. Because Cary will use any excuse to set things on fire. Because otherwise, all you can think about is stuff that's gone forever._

_Just normal kids, in a normal town._

_Except that two hours ago, you almost got killed in a train crash as an entire field basically exploded. One of your teachers tried to commit suicide and then pointed a loaded gun at you. You escaped in a 'borrowed' car driven by Alice-friggin-Dainard. And now you're turning a mysterious white cube over and over in your hands, wondering what the hell to do._

Joe leaned back, feeling the water ripple round his shoulders. Still warm, even though he'd been sitting in the bath for a solid twenty minutes. He touched the edges of the cube with his fingers, the studded, slightly eroded shape; it was heavy, heavier than the plastic his models were made of, but not metal either. The protrusions on the faces appeared to alternate in size so perhaps they could slot together?…

…But _why_ : that was the real question. Why had Dr Woodward turned his truck onto the train tracks? Why had he urged them to get away from him? Why had that door been torn off the cargo carriage as if there was something in there… alive?

Water trickled down his cheeks. Reflections danced on the tiled walls. He stretched his legs, scratched an itch on his chest. The water was pretty gross, thanks to the layer of dirt he'd scrubbed off, but still, it felt nice. Familiar. Comforting. He remembered the looks on everybody's faces – Charles, shocked, like the world was ending, Martin terrified and gibbering, Cary stupidly excited, Preston looking… betrayed, like that time they'd dumped him into the river last summer because he'd forgotten to bring the sandwiches. And Alice, understanding, unshaken, unreal.

_Alice. 'The wife.'_ _What_ happened _over the winter? Last year I basically ignored her, but now it's like she's—_

_"John, I've never asked you to stop. I've never asked you to give up, or walk away. But I'm asking you now_ _… Please, for me. Don't go. Don't leave me. I – I need to know this isn't the last time I'm going to see you. I just love you so much."_

Joe took a breath.

_Don't leave me…_

It was amazing – as if she really _was_ that person, really _did_ love Hathaway, wasn't simply a fourteen-year-old girl reading lines in a cheap thrift store dress. But what if…

_Don't leave me._

What if Alice was in more than one scene? She was so great that they had to put her in more stuff, right? What if she showed up later, helping Hathaway, maybe even got attacked by _—_

* * *

Joe padded into his bedroom and flicked on the lights. The makeup box was still sitting on his bed and he shoved it underneath; the locket hung from its usual spot on his desk lamp. Then he walked to the closet and reached up to the top shelf, taking down a black plastic case, nearly dislodging a bag of loose film reels is the process. He glanced at the bag for a moment.

_Not tonight._

Suddenly he heard a rustle as his dog, Lucy, trotted into the room and sat on the carpet behind him. She ignored the layer of old clothes and boxes and Atari cables ( _just like I do_ ) and panted happily, tail wagging, head tilted at an inquisitive angle. Her brown-white fur was silky smooth.

"Good girl Lucy. Come on."

Her ears pricked up and she followed him to the other side of the bed. He put the case down and undid the clasps. Inside was an old blue typewriter.

Joe snatched a couple of sheets of paper from his desk, plus the flashlight Charles had given him for his birthday and took everything back to the closet. It was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze inside. Just. Lucy poked her head in after him and he scratched her behind the ears; then slid down the wall until he was sitting comfortably and pulled the door shut.

Darkness.

He clicked on the torch and laid it on the floor beside to him, then propped the typewriter up on his knees, fingers poised. ' _EXTERIOR SCENE: Hillside, daytime. Hathaway's wife looks down at the smoking crash site…'_

Lucy watched the closet door with a vaguely puzzled expression as she tried to figure out the faint clacking sounds that were coming from inside.

"Woof!"

* * *

But Lucy was far from the only dog barking that night. It was like every animal in Lillian, from German Shepherds to Scottish Terriers and everything in between, was worried about… something. A hundred different howls echoed from the yards of sleeping houses, from the dark and forested hillsides, from the tall smokestacks of the steel mill and a thousand different streetlights.

Until those streetlights started going out.

If you were looking down from above, you would've seen vast patches of the town suddenly go dark. You would've seen streetlights flicker and fizzle, the early morning gloom taking hold.

And then, you might've heard something else – not a dog, but a strange and sinister _roar._

* * *

"Joe."

He twitched and opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment. His dad was standing over him, dressed in his navy deputy's uniform, surrounded by far-too-bright sunlight. _Oh man._ He licked his lips and tried to blink the tiredness away.

"Joe, wake up. Make sure you let Lucy out, alright?"

Joe propped himself up and managed an affirmative. His dad was still getting dressed, threading his holster round his waist. "What are you gonna do?" Jack asked. "Are you going to be with Charles again?"

"Yeah, I'll be with Charles."

"All right, I'm heading in. There's something I gotta deal with. Don't forget to get the yard."

"I won't."

His dad nodded, then turned and strode from the room. As soon as he was out of earshot, Joe flopped back down onto the blankets with a weary sigh.

* * *

_Okay. Feed Lucy._

Joe opened a bag of dog food, knelt down to pour it into Lucy's bowl and was utterly delighted when it immediately overflowed.

"Ughhh…"

Biscuits skittered across the tiles. He scooped them up in his hands, more focused on the pages he'd written last night and wondering if they were worth getting less than three hours of sleep for. And there had been this weird, irritating _rattling_ noise that'd kept him awake for ages.

But two minutes later he was racing across the road to Charles' house, a dozen sheets of paper clutched tightly between his fingers.

* * *

Joe could hear the commotion as soon as he came through the door. The two youngest Kaznyks were banging plastic swords against the table as Peggy, the middle child, did homework next to them with practiced studious ignorance. Mr Kaznyk peered at one of the dozens of post-its stuck to the refrigerator. Jenny stood at the counter in short denim shorts, almost vibrating with anger as she faced down her mother.

"Mom, come _on_."

"No! You are NOT wearing that. Nobody in this house is wearing that."

"Oh, really? Compared to Debbie's, these are _long_."

"Listen to your mother," Mr Kaznyk said wearily as he swept past with a sandwich in hand.

"Wa— so I can't go to Wendy's party OR wear the shorts? Not fair!"

"Jennifer Anne, 'not fair' is Africa." Mrs Kaznyk took some bacon off the stove and snatched away one of the plastic swords.

Jen threw up her hands and stormed off. "Mom's racist!"

"Do we have any more English muffins?" Peggy asked.

"Why don't you get up and _check?_ "

"Peg, tell the twins to stop," Mr Kaznyk called out.

"I can't, they don't listen!"

Joe emerged into the dining area as Charles' father walked past, loosening his tie. "Morning Joe."

"Good morning."

"Hey Joe," Mrs Kaznyk said brightly. "Did you hear about the train crash?"

"…No." He swallowed.

"Check it out. It's on the news."

Joe turned to the TV in the corner, heart beating fast. Charles was already sitting in front of it, eyes glued to the screen.

"… _instead opting to use military personnel, which for this reporter, only_ adds _to the mystery. Of course, we'll have much more on this story as it develops. Coming to you live from Montgomery County, Channel 14 news."_

The news report was showing a shaky camera feed of the crash site, probably taken from a nearby hillside. It appeared to be mostly deserted, but the overturned carriages and burnt grass looked somehow _realer_ in the daylight.

Joe trudged forwards, grabbing a seat next to his friend.

"Can you believe this?" Charles murmured.

"No."

"It's on the news. That means it's real."

"I know." They kept their voices low, though they didn't really have to.

_"Local teacher Thomas Woodward is still being treated by Air Force medical personnel after last night's train derailment. Woodward apparently fell asleep at the wheel of his pickup truck, which was hit by the speeding train. From Chopper 7, you can see how the train split the truck and carried the trailer for three blocks before the first engine derailed."_

Behind them, Charles' younger brother ran his hand through a hunk of plasticine. _"This is gross!"_

_"Well, how about you clean it up? That would be a great help, thanks so much."_

The TV cut to a local reporter who was standing before the crash site. Joe stared, fascinated, almost afraid to look away. Then he suddenly remembered the pages in his hands and handed them to Charles. "Here."

"What's this?" Charles frowned. "Wait, you wrote scenes? You never write scenes." He scanned the first page, puzzled. "You kept the wife in…"

"Yeah, I was thinking about that too. And I think you're right," Joe said nervously. "She _is_ important."

"You said you didn't get the wife."

"I was totally wrong."

Charles looked worried. "…There are a lot of pages."

_I know._ Joe leaned forwards, trying to explain. "So, what if the detective's wife is leaving town, and she's begging him to be careful, right? And then the train crashes. We can use some footage from last night to do that part. Okay?"

Charles nodded slowly. Joe turned over the first two pages, pointed half-way down the paper. "And they're at the scene of the crash, right? And they see someone who's injured, who's turning into a zombie. Okay, so the wife gets infected. So, he gets back to the factory—"

He turned another page. Charles was beginning to smile.

"So, he gets back from the factory, look, and then she _kills_ him. The zombie wife kills him." Joe grinned.

"Holy shit, that's mint."

His friend flicked through the script again, re-reading the lines in more detail. Joe turned back to the TV where a photo of Dr Woodward was being shown.

" _…An incredible mystery indeed, especially given all the unanswered questions. What cargo was on that freighter, we can't tell you at this point, because railroad officials have refused to release the manifest for the derailment_ – _the largest such accident in Ohio's history. Eighty-two train cars were thrown from the tracks. The condition of Woodward, who has taught at Lillian Middle School for the past six years…"_

"Looks like a disaster movie, doesn't it?" he murmured under his breath.

Charles was silent.

Then: "Oh my god. Joe, that's _awesome_."

"…What?"

"We can use it," Charles whispered. "We can film it."

Joe did a double-take. "You wanna go _back_?"

"Yeah! That's where we can film your new scenes!"

"Really?"

Charles nodded. "You're a total brain! We gotta go get the camera fixed and the film developed from last night. Wait here, I'm gonna go steal some money from my mom!"

* * *

They rode their bikes over the Twin Creek Bridge and onto Lillian's main street, keeping to the wide footpath. The early-morning sunshine was pleasantly warm and Joe could already feel himself starting to sweat beneath his jeans and light green shirt. On the left was the steel mill – a towering, endless expanse of corrugated iron and scaffolding and rusting pipelines, bordered by a high concrete fence. Cars sputtered past in the other direction. Joe had to pedal furiously to keep up with Charles, standing up over the handlebars. He wasn't quite sure whether to be afraid or excited… but Charles had this infectious spark in his eyes. _I guess it's excited, then._

_At least we're actually_ doing _something._

"If any of the footage is useable from last night, that means we need Alice to play the wife again," Charles shouted over his shoulder.

"Oh, yeah. I – I thought she was really good."

"Dude, she was _mint_ , but she's never gonna do it."

"I think she will."

"There's no way! You heard what she said!"

They swept past a group of hard-hatted workers and under the huge "LILLIAN STEEL CO." sign, into the town proper. Rows of shops suddenly appeared on either side – the red-brick façade of _S &A Food_, the dingy little windows of _Layman's Hobbies_ , the checkered awnings of the Lillian Pharmacy, the squeaky glass door of _Olsen Cameras and Hi-Fi._

"Well, that was before the new scenes, right?" Joe said hopefully.

"You honestly think she cares about the scenes? Man, did you hear what she siad last night? 'I should never have done this!' She was totally wigged."

"Yeah, she was. We _all_ were." _And look where we are now._

Charles shook his head, unconvinced. "Did you see her face?"

"Yeah, I saw her—"

"Then what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing! I just think she's gonna do it."

* * *

Olsen's Cameras was a brown-and-beige wonderland of glinting lenses and that acidic film smell. Cameras of all shapes and sizes sat in glass cases, next to shelves of audio equipment and projectors and electronics. Kodak boxes were stacked beneath a couple of green neon signs.

"Lens is cracked. Focus ring broke," Charles said miserably. "You think it's fixable?"

The young man behind the counter turned the camera towards him, peering dully into the lens. He had shoulder-length brown hair plus a short beard and 'stache, and wore an open-necked patchwork shirt. "I think it's cheaper to buy a new one," he said eventually.

Charles sighed and turned away. "Donny says the camera's busted, man. It's over."

Joe stood at the back of the store, holding a rotary phone up to his ear. _"_ We can use my dad's camera," he began. "It's got some—"

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the receiver. Alice's voice. _"Hello?"_

"Hey, Alice. It's, uh – it's Joe Lamb." He gripped the plastic tightly.

_"Hi."_

"Uh, so we have some new scenes for the movie and Charles and I were hoping you'd be in them."

_"Oh."_ There was silence for a moment. _"No. No, I'm done with that_." Her voice crackled.

"Really? Cause these are _really_ good scenes."

Across the room, Charles set his broken Eumig camera down on the counter, then opened a compartment in the side. He pulled out the battered black film casing, handed it over. "I need this film developed as soon as possible. Can you do it overnight?"

Donny fixed him with an I-can't-believe-you look. "Asshole, _no one_ can do overnight." He paused casually. "You wanna buy some pot?"

Charles stepped back a little. "…No. No thank you."

"You guys are weak."

"Well, what's the fastest you can do?"

Donny sighed. "I can make it a rush. You'll get your film back in – three days. Hey, what's your sister up to? The hot one, not the other one."

"I… I don't know…"

_"I'm watching the crash on the news,"_ Alice was murmuring.

"Yeah, I saw it. Are you okay? It was—"

" _I should go."_

"Wait. Hold on," Joe said quickly. _Please._ "Let me come over and I'll bring the scenes…"

" _No, no."_

"I'll be right there. It's a good idea."

_"Don't. Don't come—"_

* * *

Alice stood in the doorway with a faintly pissed-off expression. Joe stood on the veranda, clutching the script in front of him like some sort of protective talisman. He noticed that she was wearing dark red lipstick.

"I don't care what Charles wants. I said no on the phone."

"You totally did. I know that's true, but—"

"But now you're at my house."

Joe winced. " _…_ I am, which – under normal circumstances I would nev—"

"It's too weird after last night. I don't understand how you guys can keep working on that stupid movie. I really don't."

He had to look away under that accusing glare. _How can I even begin to explain?_ "We have to, while the crash is still there _…_ please?"

" _No._ "

Alice's house was on the outskirts of town, two stories and slightly decrepit-looking. The garden was overgrown, with old bikes and tools piled up around the side, and the fake columns on the porch were chipped and dirty. A steam whistle blew in the distance, startling a couple of children who were playing in the neighbours' yard.

Then, suddenly, there was a squeak of brakes as a car pulled up out front. Alice's gaze flicked to the new arrival.

"You should go," she said.

Joe looked over his shoulder. It was yellow Buick they'd driven last night, black stripes running down the hood. The same yellow Buick he'd seen at his mother's wake, looking a little worse for wear.

After a moment, a man stepped out. He wore jeans an unbuttoned shirt, tall and muscular, with scruffy blonde hair very similar to Alice's. He slammed the door shut, paused suddenly as he took in the scene.

"What's this?" he asked warily.

"He was just inviting me to a party," Alice said quickly.

"Yeah?"

He loped across the yard and up onto the veranda; stopped next to them, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

"Good morning Mr Dainard—" Joe began.

"She's not going to your party."

"Yes sir." He swallowed. That tone didn't exactly allow any questions.

Mr Dainard took off the glasses slowly, casually, and glanced at his daughter. "You know better than this." Then he pushed past and stepped into the house, letting the door bounce shut behind him.

Alice let out a breath—

_Bang._ Joe twitched as the door suddenly burst open again. Mr Dainard stepped towards him, leaning in close, all lanky muscle and breathless threats. All Joe could see in that moment were his eyes, which had this _hate_ in them, this resentment, as if he couldn't bear to look at the boy standing on his porch—

"You. Get out of here. You go home, and you DON'T come back here. I don't want to see you."

The door clattered shut.

_"Ally, come inside."_

Alice turned without a word and stepped into the house.

Silence.

Joe looked down, clenched his teeth, stood alone under the unbroken blue sky. Crickets chirped in the summer heat. The straps of his backpack dug into his shoulders.

_Well that failed, didn't it. No more movie, no more Alice, no more… anything._

But then…

Joe stared with wide eyes as a face appeared in the doorway. It pressed up against the flyscreen, like a ghost in a denim skirt and a wave of blonde hair.

"I'll do it," she murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

"…What?"

"I'll do it."


	6. The Air Force

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realised that nowadays I pay much more attention to 'flow' – making sure each sentence flows nicely into the next and accurately reflects the 'feel' of the scene. For example, when Alice's dad arrives in the last chapter I spent ages trying different phrases to get the right pace and emotions across, while still describing what's happening. You can be the judge of how well that worked (I'm still not completely happy with that sequence) but it's a challenge when you're directly adapting something like a movie.
> 
> It's also very easy to front-load exposition. When you're writing one chapter every few weeks, it's difficult to gauge how information (Joe's relationship with his dad, his thoughts about Alice, etc) will balance across the finished story. Often it's better to only hint at things, or not reveal them at all... but I guess that's what editing is for.

The creature staggered up the grassy hillside with slow, jerking steps. It had bone-white eyes and bloody teeth, and thirsted for human flesh.

Detective Hathaway raised his gun with a clinical sense of calm.

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"AaaAARRGGHHhheerrr!"

The gun fired as the camera whirred. The zombie screamed and fell to its knees, clutching a bloody chest. Hathaway fired once more, the shot echoing out across the field, and the zombie thudded face-first into the grass.

Hathaway glanced at his wife, who stood beside him determinedly – two figures beneath a steel-grey sky.

Silence for a moment.

"Cut!" Charles smiled and pulled off his headphones. "That was _mint._ Oh my god, with the train? _So good_."

He stepped forwards, taking in the scene. Martin and Alice relaxed in costume while Joe stopped the camera and Preston set the mike down; Martin wore his brown jacket and hat, while Alice wore a long beige trenchcoat over her dress. Their bikes and backpacks were scattered haphazardly amid the overgrown grass.

"Joe, reload the cap-gun," Charles continued.

"Okay."

"We'll shoot another angle next." He turned to the actors. "Alice, that was mint. Martin, go a little faster next time."

"I'll try Charles but I'm still… _crying_ about last night, man. I feel like I'm crazy." Martin trailed off, shifting from one foot to another. He took another glance over his shoulder…

…where at the bottom of the hill, behind a line of trees, there were the jumbled remains of last night's crash. It seemed to stretch on forever. Burnt, blackened carriages were strewn across the valley, zig-zagging traincars stretching into the distance behind, halted before they could fully derail. Exploded fuel and cargo compartments lay stacked at crazy angles, glinting in the weak sunlight. Chewed-up dirt and splintered wood formed a wide, ashen circle. It still looked terribly unreal – a quarter-mile scar of destruction that had no place in their quiet corner of the world.

Cary leapt up and took the ping-pong balls off his eyes. His hands and shirt were covered in fake blood. "Guys, did it really look good? My death?"

"Dude, it looked awesome," Charles reassured him.

"It was magic."

Joe unzipped Cary's backpack and dug through it for another set of caps. The hillside above the crash site was proving to be an excellent filming spot – quiet, open, with a great view (though it had taken a bit of effort to get there). In this scene, Detective Hathaway was discussing last night's events with his wife when they were suddenly attacked by a zombie, and it felt more than a little weird that their movie was changing to reflect real life. His fingers touched something plastic – _got 'em_ – and he stood up, shivering in the cloudy chill.

As he looked around for the gun he noticed Alice standing in the grass, gazing towards the crash. Her skin was strangely pale, almost like it was frozen. So he walked up, stopped beside her, and tried to think of a subject to—

"What do you think happened?" she asked quietly.

Joe turned to face her. "You mean why he crashed the train?"

"No, I…" She shook her head glumly. "I've just got a horrible feeling."

Joe paused. _She looks worried, like she's trying to figure something out, and the only thing I can think about is how weird this all seems._ He tried to remember the panic they'd felt, but it seemed oddly distant. The scene looked different in the daylight; maybe it was the colour, or the scale, or the angle. But one thing he did remember were the torches in the night, the ones that had chased them away from the crash in a rush of dust and smoke. _I wonder…_

"Anyone else still shaking from the train crash?" Martin called out.

"I got in my parents' bed last night," Preston replied. "Haven't done that since I was eleven."

Suddenly, Joe turned and started walking towards the camera. Charles was currently fiddling with the lens but he picked it up anyway, tripod and all.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

Joe ignored him and tore out the headphone jacks, then placed the camera down in the grass next to Alice. _It's my dad's camera_ _anyway, since Charles's got broken._ He leaned and squinted through the viewfinder, zooming in, focusing on the wrecked train.

Preston and Martin stared at him weirdly for a moment, but soon began peering at the crash too. The six of them stood in a line across the hillside – except for Charles, who just folded his arms in annoyance.

Looking closer, the field was now buzzing with activity. A news chopper circled above the smoky haze which still blanketed the area, rotors thudding at the edge of their hearing, and couple of bright red semitrailers had parked amid the wreckage. A flock of swallows flitted between firefighting trucks and olive-green army jeeps and… _people. Can't really make them out at this distance, but there's definitely people poking around down there._ _And— huh. That's weird._

Joe frowned. "That whole thing's an Air Force train," he murmured.

"…What?"

* * *

They sat in one of the booths at Carol's Diner, three to a side, by the front window, surrounded by chips and hamburgers and glasses of cold coke. The place was pretty quiet this late in the afternoon, and a pair of waitresses in bright yellow dresses attended the few occupied tables. The diner had a simple, lived-in look that Joe liked – _plus, the food's cheap._

"I make models – like, plastic ones," Joe explained. "You know, glue 'em, paint 'em, stuff like that—"

Preston sighed. " _And_ he's not embarrassed by that."

"Look who's talking, Math Camp!" Cary retorted.

A waitress sidled over and laid a plate of chips in front of Charles.

"Thanks. Could I have a coffee please, cream on the side?"

"Sure." She walked off, slightly bemused.

Cary smirked. "He's so sophisticated."

"Shut up, I like coffee."

" _No one_ likes coffee."

Alice smiled as they bickered with each other, glancing from face to face. Joe leaned forwards. "Air Force trains, even the models, have these hooks—"

"Ooh, they do!" Preston's face was alight. "For when the trains are loaded on the transport ships!"

"—and every car in that crash had hooks—"

"Joe, would you stop talking about it, all right?" Charles interrupted.

"Wait, guys. Am I the only one who doesn't understand what any of this means?" Martin asked.

"Probably, Smartin."

"Cary, shut up."

"You shut up."

"I don't like it when you call me that."

"I'm sorry Smartin. Let's just go cry about it."

"No! I don't want to!"

" _…_ Dr Woodward had that map," Joe began, still thinking. "He _drove_ onto the train tracks. Maybe, there was something that he wanted to—"

"To destroy, yeah!" Preston and Martin nodded in unison.

Charles shook his head. "My God, will you guys just shut up?"

"Maybe he was just sick of being old and wanted to kill himself," Cary suggested.

"That's a dumb idea."

Joe shrugged. "He had a gun. Why not use that?"

"Out of bullets?"

"There _are_ infinitely more effective ways to commit suicide," Preston said matter-of-factly. "Pills, hanging…

"Hey! Pussy! Stop taking the fries away!" Cary glared across the table.

"I ordered these for a _reason_ ," Charles shot back.

Cary just rolled his eyes. "Excuse me. Could we get another order of fries? Because my friend here is _fat_."

"Funny, chompers. At least I don't have to use a booster seat." Charles made a show of swallowing another couple of chips as Cary grinned at him, braces sparkling.

"He gets all possessive with his fries, it's so annoying," he told Alice.

"…You could jump from a building," Preston continued.

"Or fall down some stairs," Martin added.

"Well, that's not really effective."

"Isn't it?"

Then, suddenly, Alice spoke up. "If it's the Air Force – what would the Air Force have on the train?"

"Jesus, shut _up_ about it!" Charles hissed. "You heard what Old Man Woodward said, we _can't_ talk about this." He glared around the table, the conversation trailing off. That final image of Dr Woodward was hard to forget – bloodied, battered, pointing the gun. A moment later, the waitress arrived with Charles' coffee. "Thank you, very much."

Preston was still lost in the world of common suicide methods. "…drowning, _hari kari_ , also known as _seppuku_ …"

"What was your teacher even talking about?" Martin asked quietly. "Who are we supposed to be afraid of anyway?"

"I don't wanna find out," Charles replied. "Guys, we _gotta_ forget we were there. Joe, seriously. Do you really wanna take a chance that something could happen to your dad, too?"

Joe didn't answer, instead picking at the tablecloth. _My dad? Why bring_ him _into this?_

* * *

Jack Lamb couldn't help but feel that something was very, very wrong. No – it had felt like _everything_ was wrong, ever since he'd arrived.

First, that call had come in about smoke in the hills; then people had started buzzing about some insane train accident. Of course, he'd needed to check it out, so he'd driven his patrol car down to the old train station and suddenly found himself in a damned smoking warzone. As soon as he stepped out he was immediately surrounded by a dozen air force guards, _s_ _erious-looking_ air force _,_ who had gently but firmly taken him into a supply tent and told him to wait for further information.

A whole bunch of wrongness.

And as he emerged from the tent into the afternoon sunlight, that feeling only got worse. The Air Force Colonel – 'Nelec' – who'd eventually agreed to talk to him had this air of calm superiority, like _yes, I'll answer your questions, but I have far more important things to be doing._

"This is all anyone's been talking about," Jack said insistently. "People want to know what the deal is."

Nelec brushed him off and strode ahead. He was a muscular man, with a weathered sort of face and cropped ginger hair. _Very serious eyes,_ Jack thought. Like all the other men swarming over the wreckage he wore an olive green air force uniform, plus a colonel's cap on his head. "Yes, Deputy, I'm told this crash has caused a whole mess of confusion."

"Well, as you can expect the local authorities are trying to figure out just what happened, as well as how to help you here." Jack half-ran to catch up.

"It's all under control. It'll be a very fast cleanup."

"Colonel, there isn't anything that I should know, is there?"

"Not that I can think of, Deputy."

They walked through the dirt, past barrels and tree branches and twisted axles. At least a hundred personnel were sifting through the rubble, or running around with purposeful looks on their faces. News choppers still flew overhead. Jack tried to forget the pure absurdity of what he was seeing – _how the_ hell _does a train end up like this?_ – and focus on getting answers.

"I understand you have concerns about our cargo," Nelec said calmly.

"Well, I'd like to see that manifest, yes."

"That's not gonna be possible."

Jack felt a flash of anger. "Colonel, I've got a lotta people in my town that are gonna wanna know what's taking place," he said, as forcefully as he could.

For the first time, the air force man turned to face him. Jack put his hands on his hips and squinted into the sunlight.

"Which town is that?"

 _Oh, you bastard._ "Lillian."

"Deputy, if you're asking me if we had any dangerous property on board this train" – he leaned in close, with that same even tone – "I can assure you the answer in 'No' _._ Excuse me."

And with that, Nelec left him standing alone in the wreckage. Jack sighed and looked around. _They're military. Did you actually_ expect _them to tell you anything?_

 _But hell, if this isn't the strangest thing I've ever seen._ There were carriages that had been thrown nearly two hundred yards from the rails; scorchmarks as far as they eye could see. Right there, just in front of him, a half-melted fuel tanker had barrelled through the dirt like a missile from God, surrounded by a metre-deep ditch of glassed sand and shrapnel. _What happened here? How did the air force turn up so quickly? Why Lillian,_ _of all places?_

 _I_ really _want to know what's going on here._

As he watched, men brought hundreds of small white objects – cubes? – to a set of long tables, where other men dusted them off with thick gloves and paintbrushes. Then they'd be handed to someone else, with some kind of Geiger counter or something, then placed into these huge wooden crates absolutely _filled_ with the damn things. Green crates, with 'USAF' spray-painted on the sides.

_"All right, easy, easy!"_

_"It's loaded. Move out."_

_"Yes sir!"_

Then the crates would be lifted into one of the half-dozen red semitrailers parked around the crash site. One of the trucks was leaving now, engine growling, featureless except for a trio of white dots painted upon the trailer. Jack watched it go, feeling slightly conspicuous in his navy-blue police uniform (and slightly angry that no one was paying attention to the badge upon his chest). _But of course, they're military._

Over by the shattered remnants of the station – and Jack recalled that it had been a pretty damn sturdy train station – two air force men were kneeling in the dirt. One was holding a bucket of plaster, while the other cleaned some sort of rectangular cast. A groove ran through the earth by their feet. Jack frowned.

_Huh. They're making casts of tire tracks._

_…Why would they be doing that?_

* * *

Phones were ringing off the hook at the Lillian Police Station as the clock ticked past five, and the pinup-boards on the walls were covered in the day's work. Officers strode around the room carrying folders and cups of coffee, every desk in the faintly gloomy main office littered with papers. As he'd driven back from the crash site, Jack had grown more and more annoyed with the air force's reticence, eventually deciding to get the Sheriff onto it. _Maybe he can drag something out of them._

It wasn't working. "They gave me the runaround for two hours before they allowed me to talk to anyone," Jack said irritably. "I got there and apparently everyone was too _busy_ to talk to the local deputy."

"I'd say they've had their hands full, Jack," Sheriff Pruitt replied. He dragged a report across his desk and shoved it into his bag.

"Nelec, the Colonel, refused to show me the manifest. He told me they're carrying mostly airplane parts. I don't buy that."

The Sheriff looked at him funnily. "It's Air Force, Jack – airplane parts sorta makes sense." He packed another folder, stood up, started walking to another office.

"Sheriff, I'm telling you, there's something else goin' on," Jack insisted. "They're, they're taking molds of _tire tracks_. Why would they be doing that? Who would they be looking for? And – and they're packaging these weird little cubes into these crates—"

"Weird little cubes," the Sheriff repeated. He didn't sound convinced.

"Yeah, they're loadin' 'em onto these red trucks. There're _dozens_ of 'em, and I'm telling you, they're scrambling to get the hell outta there."

"I'd say that's a good thing, wouldn't you?"

"Sheriff, I think you need to go check it out."

"And I think you need to take a break."

Pruitt turned to face him with slightly sad eyes. Jack just stood there, jaw clenched. Around them, police officers packed up their gear, getting ready for home.

"Jack, I've been telling you since Elizabeth," Pruitt said gently. "You're a good deputy, but you need to take a vacation. Go home. Take off the uniform, go fishin'." He smiled. "Give your son a hug."

The Sheriff patted him on the shoulder, walking off. Jack watched him go and let out a single frustrated sigh.

* * *

The police car pulled into Kelvin Gasoline, squeaking to a stop next to one of the two available pumps. Above, the sky was dark; the pumps lay in the glow of a pair of bright streetlights. The glass facade of the gas station beckoned from across the yard, beneath a blue tin roof and 'KELVIN' in spinning yellow letters.

The car was a Ford Crown Victoria, with clean black-and-white bodywork and sirens gleaming on the roof, and Sheriff Pruitt climbed out with a sigh. He was getting old, these days, with a badly-receding hairline and flabby neck, and a stomach that'd seen a few too many beer cans over the past couple of years.

He'd been a good policeman though. He'd been a good policeman for most of his life, really, and Sheriff for the past decade. In two more years he could retire – sit at home with the wife, finish the boat, visit the kids more than once a year. _Or argue with the wife, argue with the kids, forget the boat, and just laze around getting fat_ … _ter._

He snorted, and tried to remember how he'd become so old.

But enough of that. Right now, there was a huge bloomin' train accident to worry about, plus a woman who'd be _very_ angry if he was late again for dinner.

Pruitt trudged across the asphalt to the gas station. Inside, it was the same as always – bright fluorescent lights, shelves stocked with chocolate and drinks and novelty keychains, a familiar kid behind the counter. Breen, his name was, with slicked-back hair and headphones jammed into his ears. He was looking down and bopping his head a little, lost in his own world.

"Breen, I'm not sure Edie's payin' you to listen to the radio," Pruitt called out. He grabbed a couple of candy bars from a box and saw that the kid still hadn't noticed him, so he tossed a Snickers at his head. "Breen!"

Breen jumped and whirled around. He smiled awkwardly when he saw who it was. "Hey Sheriff."

Pruitt walked up to the counter, gesturing at the headphones. "What's that?"

"Walkman. It's like a stereo. Play your own cassette tapes. You wanna try it?"

"…I don't think so. Kids walkin' around with their own stereos, just what we need," Pruitt replied. He winked and laid a few bills on the counter. "It's a slippery slope, my friend."

"Yes sir."

The Sheriff strolled back to the car, smiling to himself. Breen was a good kid; a little dim, maybe, but a good worker. And honest. _Better than most kids these days._ Pruitt bent down and popped the fuel cap, then took one of the pumps and began filling up the tank.

The pump _dinged_ softly with every gallon. He leaned against the hood and unwrapped one of his chocolate bars, watching the numbers tick up. It was a warm night – as you'd expect at the start of summer – and perfectly still, no breeze to speak of. Quiet, too. Usually you'd hear crickets chirping, or the leaves rustling, or someone working late in the service shed behind the gas station. But… nothing.

In fact, it was _too_ quiet.

Pruitt stood up, walked a couple of steps towards the road. He looked around, hands on his hips; the whole station was surrounded by a thick wall of trees and bushes, vaguely visible in the darkness. The pump dinged. A couple of stars twinkled up above, most of them hidden by cloud.

Something felt wrong. The younger officers would laugh to hear him say it, but after this long on the force, you sometimes had this… _sense_ that something was about to happen. Something bad.

Suddenly, he heard dogs barking, a group all at once. He whirled around and saw—

A pack of five, maybe six, come racing out of the darkness. They sprinted across the gravel – a terrier, a Labrador, a large Dalmatian – running straight towards him.

_Woof woof! Woof! Woof!_

Pruitt stumbled as the dogs scampered past, a couple on either side. They ignored him completely, still barking madly, then disappeared into the trees on the other side of the gas station. He blinked.

_What the hell?_

Pruitt took a few steps, fingers resting on the butt of his pistol. The dogs were following the road, maybe. The road out of town. He glanced back at where they'd come from. They definitely hadn't been wild, but it hadn't looked like they were from the same house, either – and the were clearly agitated about _something_. _Well, maybe a loud noise scared 'em off. Wouldn't be the first time a pet's run away for no reason._

_Wouldn't be the first time I've had to chase 'em down, either._

Then the sirens on his police car flared to life, flashing red and blue. The Sheriff jumped. He half-ran to the driver's side window, then jumped again as the car's radio began squawking wildly, broadcasting unintelligible, static-filled chatter.

 _"Alert… Code One-Thr_ — _All as normal…_ _Kkkkkrrrghghh… Roger. Station is… Click."_

Pruitt reached inside and switched off the radio, then the siren. He frowned, scanning the switches on the dash. In the back of his mind he noticed that the petrol pump was dinging slightly faster.

Something rustled. Like footsteps on leaves. Pruitt ducked out of the car and squinted into the bushes across the road, tried to make out any shapes in the shadows—

Then another rustle, behind him, louder. He whirled around. It had come from behind the service shed, from the forest, but nothing he could see was moving. Just… darkness. Leaves and darkness.

The whole world seemed to be going crazy. He glanced back at the well-lit windows of the gas station, if only to reassure himself that it was still there, but the pump was speeding up and slowing down like a too-drunk driver. _Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding… ding-ding-ding-ding-ding…_

The Sheriff started to walk towards the trees, shivering slightly. He took a couple of deep breaths, feeling the comforting weight of his pistol. It was probably a wild animal or something; they'd had reports of bear attacks before, and the beasts were growing bolder every year. Especially near mating season.

Yes, that was it. It was probably a bear. If he could just get a good look at it, he could put out a warning and be on his way home.

_Ding… ding…_

CRASH!

A rubbish skip cannoned across the yard from around the side of the station. Metal screeched as it skidded across the asphalt, spinning, cracking, impossibly loud, as if it'd been fired from a gun. The Sheriff recoiled and staggered back as gravel stung his face. It slid to a stop in a cloud of choking dust, leaving _…_ silence.

Silence and fear. Pruitt stared into the darkness. _That shouldn't happen. That should. Not. Happen._ The skip probably weighed half a ton, perhaps more. He watched with wide eyes as the dust cleared, heart beating fast, and put both hands on his gun.

* * *

' _Once I had a love, and it was gas,_

_Soon turned out, had a heart of glass._

_Seemed like the real thing, only to fi-i-ind,_

_Much of mistrust, love's gone behind…'_

Breen lounged behind the gas station counter, eyes closed, nodding along to the Blondie song that blared from his headphones. Inside, it was bright, and warm, and perfectly still.

Outside, Sheriff Pruitt's police car bounced half a metre into the air as something slammed into its bonnet. A brief cloud of sparks scraped across the undercarriage. Shards of glass erupted from shattered windows.

The car shuddered again, suspension screeching. Smoke began to pour out from underneath.

Perfectly still.

_'Once I had a love, and it was divine,_

_Soon found out, I was losing my mind._

_It seemed like the real thing, but I was so bli-i-ind,_

_Much of mistrust, love's gone behind…'_

The lights in the gas station suddenly went out, plunging the room into darkness. They came back on a second later.

Breen blinked and looked up. Then he turned around, and his eyes widened as he saw the scene outside.

The lights flickered out again. And kept flickering, on, off, on off, buzzing with electricity. Breen pulled off his headphones and walked to the door. He stepped outside, clutching his Walkman, staring all the while.

"…Sheriff?" he asked nervously.

The car's front wheels were splayed to either side, ripped off their axle by some huge force – the same force which had punched a three-foot dent into the hood. The engine had been completely crushed, surrounding bodywork twisted and crumpled. Steam poured from the radiator.

Oddly enough, the back of the car was basically undamaged. But the front, well, the front looked like it had been attacked by a wrecking ball.

"…Sheriff?" Breen walked tentatively around the car, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. His boots crunched on glass and scattered engine parts. He forced himself to look through the window but nobody was sitting inside.

The Sheriff, in fact, was nowhere to be seen.

The pump nozzle had fallen from the tank, spewing a couple of gallons of fuel onto the ground, rippling in the shadows. Breen picked up the nozzle cautiously and stared into the surrounding forest.

He was about to call for the Sheriff again when he heard a noise behind him – some kind of high, whistling rattle. Breen whirled around, and saw…

It.

A shrieking roar, burned into his brain.

Breen turned and ran, nearly tripping over his own feet, pushing himself up and sprinting towards the safety of the gas station. He screamed in pure fear for what was the first time in his life, stumbling through the entrance, running, running away from _that_ —

 _CRACK!_ The entire face of the gas station exploded inward. Breen was thrown to the floor, yelled in panic as he was consumed by a spray of breaking glass. The Walkman fell from his hands and skidded across the tiles. His heart almost burst as something grabbed his legs and he clutched at the nearest shelf and held on for dear life, still screaming, felt his fingers slipping with every passing second. The lights flickered. An unspeakable sensation. Gigantic limbs thrashed in the enclosed space, tearing chunks from walls and toppling cupboards and heaving shelves into the air.

And then… his fingers let go.

Just a shadow.

Another terrifying roar echoed through the night as, out front, the gas station's sign spun gently in the darkness, just like it always had.


	7. Monsters in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today in novelisation issues: I've been thinking about whether I should deviate from the movie, in terms of making scenes longer or even adding new ones. The movie often cuts very rapidly, giving just a couple of lines to each character, and while that's great on film it feels 'choppy' written down. At the moment I spend more words on scene set-up than anything else, thanks to my slightly obsessive descriptive tendencies.
> 
> I've decided to wait before adding anything too significant though – and there's always that whole 'continue into a sequel' thing I put in the story description…

Eventually, a new day began to spread over Lillian – slowly, uncertainly, as if the sun had decided it didn't really want to get out of bed that morning but turned up to work anyway. Dim pink light peeked through the clouds, illuminating the thickly-forested hills, the smoky, blackened steel mill, the hundreds of multi-coloured rooves and gently-curving streets.

Summer holidays, though, were _perfect_ for early mornings, and the well-oiled machine of Charles Kaznyk Productions didn't have time to wait for the sun. As their director was very fond of reminding them, the movie festival submission deadline was creeping closer every day, so they'd gathered at Charles' house at 7AM to shoot what was (chronologically) the final scene.

It was one of the scenes which Joe had added a couple of nights ago, though Preston had rewritten most of it while muttering something about 'emotional climaxes'. In fact, Preston was still poring over it now, huddled together with Martin on the living room couch with a crumpled copy of the script.

"You know, in scene, um… where is it." Martin turned a page. "Here, look. You know the bit when I pull out the gun?"

"M-hm?"

"I don't think that should happen. Hathaway's not the kind of guy who would do that."

"You sure? I think it builds the suspense better. Like you don't know what's going to happen. Then you think you do. And then you don't."

"Yeah, but…"

Cary and Charles were setting up a pair of spotlights for a shot in the far corner. At this distance, Cary looked to be a full head shorter and half the size of his friend. Wires trailed across the carpet, winding between piles of discarded clothes and toys. The Kaznyk household was unusually quiet; most weren't awake yet, apart from Charles' younger brother who was sitting quietly by the TV.

Over by the kitchen bench, Alice gazed at her reflection in a small compact mirror. Thick smears of mascara encircled her eyes, looking like deep, dark bruises. Shadowy patches created a gaunt nose and cheeks. Veins were eerily outlined on her forehead. More mascara accentuated the tendons in her neck, standing out against her pale skin and the bloody-red corn syrup smudged across her mouth.

She smiled at the grotesque image. That face was sunken, ghoulish, barely recognisable. Zombie-like, perhaps. "Where'd you learn to do this?" she asked wonderingly.

"Mostly the _Dick Smith Monster Make-up Handbook_ ," Joe replied, half-proud half-embarrassed.

Across the room, Charles and Cary were in the midst of a whispered discussion. After a few more nods and enthusiastic hand gestures, they finished setting up the lights and walked over to Joe.

"Hey, Joe. We need some more footage of the train crash," Charles began. "Obviously." He was grinning like an idiot, and Cary had unleashed his puppy-dog eyes. "You know that train model you just made?—"

"Your – your cargo train," Cary added eagerly.

"—I wanna blow it up and film it."

"Lemme blow it up."

Joe paused, smile frozen on his face. "Um… Yeah. Sure."

"Mint!"

" _Gnarly._ Yes!"

They high-fived each other, skipping back to the set. Joe turned to his toolbox, and noticed Alice looking at him concernedly.

"It's fine. They can blow it up. I don't care." He shrugged. "I can show you the train… it's nothing, it's stupid."

Alice nodded faintly.

Joe started packing his stencils and mascara, chucking them haphazardly into their compartments. Unbidden, the image of a dry grey paintbrush flashed through his mind and he suppressed a sudden surge of disappointment. _But what else was it going to do? Sit on your shelf gathering dust?…_

Alice was still looking at him.

"You wanna see it?" he asked suddenly. "The train? My train model? The train I made?"

Before his brain could catch up with his mouth, the lights flickered. On-off, on-off.

"Whoa!"

"What the hell?"

"Dude, that's bitching. That's like the third time it's happened."

Everybody stopped for a moment, puzzled, as the room flashed bright and dark – but a couple of seconds later, the power went back to normal. Alice slid off her stool, standing before him.

"So – how am I supposed to be a zombie?"

"Oh. Um…" Joe grinned a little. "Pretty much just be a lifeless ghoul, with no soul. Dead eyes. Scary." _Obviously._ "Did you ever have Mrs Mullin?"

"For English? Yeah." Alice laughed in recognition.

"Well, kind of like her, but hungry for human flesh – like she wants to turn someone into a zombie. 'Cause that's kind of what zombies do."

"…Okay." She paused, thinking; then tilted her head and started twitching, swaying from side to side. Her eyes locked onto his – dull, lifeless, hungry and blue, staring out from sunken cheeks. Breath rasped through half-parted lips.

"Oh my god, yeah. That's really good."

Alice began shuffling towards him in her flowery orange dress. She tilted her head the other way but kept her eyes straight ahead, arms half-raised in a zombie's embrace, closer and closer. A soft snarl escaped from bared teeth. Joe kept standing there with half a smile, unsure of what to do.

And then, when she was almost _uncomfortably_ close – she grabbed him lightly and pretended to bite his neck.

 _Holy shi—_ Joe jumped as cold lips touched his skin. Alice backed off in a fit of giggles, performance over an instant later.

"Not bad," he said breathlessly, trying to get his heart under control.

"Really?" Her face beamed.

"Really. Haha."

Alice grinned, making her way to the bathroom. Joe shivered, and felt the smudge of blood-red lipstick still burning on his neck. _Woah… well, that just happened._

He didn't notice Charles staring at him with slightly wounded eyes.

* * *

The gas station was ruined. Absolutely _ruined_. As Jackson Lamb trudged through the wreckage, his boots crunched through a foot-deep layer of crumpled boxes and toppled shelves, shattered glass and splintered tiles, burst chip-packets and squashed candy bars. Every wall was covered in deep, angry scratches; the entire front face was simply twisted metal. There were a couple of intact cupboards behind the counter, but that was it. The rest, as they said, was history.

 _What did this? What_ could _do this? It almost looks worse than the train. Hell, who knows – maybe the air force'll come and clean this place up too._

_Hope the insurance was good._

Edie Brandis, the gas station's owner, was a blonde, weathered woman in her fifties, famous around town for her ability to stay single. She'd called the police half an hour ago and now waited out front with a helpless expression, unsure of what she could do. Beside her was old Mr. Blakely, dressed in his cap and jacket, who'd apparently been the first to notice the damage earlier that morning.

"Security cameras showed nothing. Someone had erased the videotape," Edie said flatly. "The register was full, though."

"I came by just a little while ago and I – I found it just like this," Mr. Blakely added. "I think this is most likely a, a _bear_ attack."

Jack gazed at the devastation, ignoring him. "You haven't had any troubles with Breen, have you?"

"Oh hell no, that boy is a good egg," Edie insisted. "I pay him well, he does good work." She leaned against a propped-up beam, which immediately shifted and clattered to the floor.

"For gosh sakes Edie, be careful!" Blakely muttered.

The woman closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Jack crouched in the centre of the room where the layer of wreckage had sagged; there seemed to be some sort of fissure in the floor. He brushed aside a couple of tiles, uncovering the edges of a sizeable hole that arrowed straight through the building's foundation, into the earth itself. It looked deep, though you'd have to shift some rubble to get to the rest of it. _Hmm._

He stood up. Looked around. Dangling scraps of insulation brushed his head, torn electrical cables sprouting from the ceiling. Wildlife buzzed and tweeted in the summery forest warmth, audible through the shattered windows.

"Where's the gun?" he asked.

* * *

Jack stepped through the destroyed façade, out into the sunlight. More debris was scattered across the yard, thrown around by… something. There seemed to be a couple of small bloodstains on the ground, but definitely no bodies. _I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Good, for now._

"Careful! There was a gas spill," Edie called after him. "I… don't even know how much fuel I lost."

Mr. Blakely followed, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "You don't seem to be asking very many questions—"

"Shh! Give the man some _time_ , Mr. Blakely," Edie whispered.

"He's only a Deputy – he's not the Sheriff."

"Shh! Doesn't matter!"

 _There's the gun._ Jack crouched down where it lay on the bitumen: a plain black revolver, Smith & Wesson, lying on its own just in front of the gas pumps.

 _I'm not asking questions because, right now, no one knows the answers. But I can guess who this gun belongs to._ He ran a finger over the grip, and picked up a piece of blue plastic that lay on the ground beside it. It was quite thick and gently curved; Jack could imagine it covering a patrol car siren.

There was another question. _W_ _here's the car?_

"It was probably a bear attach," Blakely repeated. "Are you listening? A bear attack."

"Remember when I said you talk too much? Well, this is the time," Edie replied.

Jack unhooked his police radio from his belt, held it up to his mouth. "Vicky, you heard from Sheriff Pruitt this morning?"

 _"…Negative,"_ was the crackling reply. _"Still no word."_

Jack thought for a moment. His badge glinted in the sun as Edie and Mr Blakely looked on, arms folded. "Vicky, you need to have Dayton send a CS unit out to Edie's," he said eventually. "And you put an APB out on the Sheriff and Breen Haskell, and send units over to their houses immediately. You copy all that?"

 _"Copy. And, Jack_ – _we_ _'re getting a_ lotta _unusual calls."_

"…What kinds of unusual calls?"

* * *

In the offices of the local car dealership, Izzy Castanella spread his hands. He was a mousy little man who'd been selling cars as long as Jack could remember, but now his smooth salesman's voice had given way to anger as he tried to communicate just how bewildered and _frustrated_ he was.

"It's the weirdest thing, Jack. I don't know what to yell you."

"Security cameras catch anything?"

"Zero! Tape musta been demagnetised, the alarms never went off… I didn't even know we had a problem here till I tried to take Pat for a test drive!"

"And nobody saw anyone?"

"Nada. Zilch. Not a thing!"

Jack grimaced. _Of course there's nothing._ "Well… why don't ya' come out and show me your cars."

"Yeah. Sure." Izzy rolled his eyes irritably, then squeezed past to have a quick word with a waiting customer. _"Are you okay, Pat?"_

_"I'm okay."_

_"We're really sorry about this. I'll be with you in a second."_

There was a TV in the corner of the office, sitting on an unused desk. It was showing another news report about the trainwreck, like every other station had been doing for the past 24 hours. Jack found himself staring at the footage; it was almost hypnotic.

"Jack, come on! You gotta see this!"

He whirled around. "Yeah. Coming."

* * *

"I've never seen this kind of thing before! I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do? The insurance company guy thought I was jokin' with him!"

Izzy made his way down the line of parked cars – a shiny red Chevy, a new-model Camaro, a black second-hand Buick – and popped the hood of each one. Jack followed close behind, squinting in the sunlight. Lines of triangular flags stretched over the yard, flapping in the light breeze. A couple of onlookers had stepped off the main street to watch the proceedings in confusion.

"I mean, it's crazy! Look at my Bonneville over here! They'd have to have a winch to take that out!" Izzy held up the hood and gestured at the engine – or where the engine would've been, if it hadn't been conspicuously missing. The bodywork was intact, the oil and fuel lines still there, but the engine block had been… removed, cleanly, like it'd never been there in the first place. It was the same with every car in Izzy's yard, all two-dozen of them. "I got a call about this car yesterday. What am I gonna tell the customer?"

Jack shrugged helplessly and tried to muster up some curiosity. _I've only got room in my head for three mysteries a day, not three thousand._ "You been having any troubles with anyone lately, Izzy?"

"Ha. Well, I was thinking you should talk to Louis Dainard."

Jack's eyes flicked over to him, just for a moment.

"Yeah." Izzy nodded. "I didn't help him out with financing last year, and I wouldn't be surprised if this was some sort of _sick_ retribution."

* * *

That was only the start – _three thousand more mysteries, coming right up._ Jack's distinctive police uniform drew people to him like moths to a lightbulb, and as he marched out of the caryard he found himself immediately besieged with questions. A guy in overalls, a woman in a blue dress, another woman who'd lost something—

"Hey, deputy! My _generator_ is missing, it was stolen last night—"

"—the phones aren't working! They won't produce a signal—"

"Excuse me, but my dog's gone. Disappeared. He hasn't come home this morning."

"—someone's taken my generator, listen—"

"Deputy, please, I really need you to come and take a look."

Jackson did his best to brush them off while being diplomatic at the same time. "Call the station and file a report. I'll have someone come out and take care of each one of you, okay?"

"—strange shit's been goin' on. My antenna's been stolen, my lights keep going on and off – I'm counting on you, Jack—"

"D'you call the station yet? You need to call the station and file a report. Then we can take care of things. If you do that for me, I promise you, I'll handle it myself."

Suddenly, an unfamiliar noise filled his ears. He stopped walking and glanced up the road, past the arcade, where…

A convoy of air force trucks was rumbling down the main street of Lillian. His _street._ Big six-wheelers with enormous tires, painted in dark camouflage, their trays covered by olive-green canvas.

_Somehow, t_ _his is only the second-craziest thing I've seen today._

People stopped in their tracks and stared from the sidewalks, alternately curious or afraid. Jack just stared. The first truck rolled past him thirty seconds later, engine rumbling, smoke pouring from the exhaust; it looked like a troop carrier, a dozen uniformed air force soldiers sitting in the tray. One was listening intently on some sort of radio while another pointed a scanner at the road. Some weird beeping, cylindrical thing.

Then another truck drove past, then another. The sight seemed incredibly out of place, a convoy of twenty military vehicles passing through as if they owned the place. _What the hell are_ they _doing here?_

 _It can't be good, whatever it is_ … _and_ _I sure am saying that a lot these days._

Jack kept staring until the engine-rumble faded and the last soldier had disappeared over the hill. The trucks had driven by without incident, and now that he thought about it, they were probably on their way to the crash site – _but what are they doing there that needs another 200 soldiers to handle?_

He'd just started walking back to his squad car when something caught his eye (momentarily pushing the convoy from his mind). Joe, Charles, and the rest of his friends were sitting in the window of Carol's Diner, across the road, probably grabbing lunch, with a girl that looked a lot like—

* * *

"Roooaaaghoooorrrr… Uurrrggghhh…"

Alice made a better zombie than Charles, but that wasn't gonna stop him from trying. He leaned back in his chair and waved his arms, moaning vigorously.

"Shut up!" Cary hissed, suppressing a smile. "It's not funny. Everyone's looking at us."

"Aaaaahhhh… urrrghh."

"Shut up, dude, seriously!"

Charles took a zombie-sip of his milkshake and collapsed, shoulders heaving with laughter. Alice giggled, though Cary was unimpressed. "Sometimes, Charles, I wonder why we haven't murdered each other. _God_."

"I wonder that all the time," Preston said.

Joe smiled. Back at Charles' house, the movie was going well – they'd been getting through the scenes, Alice and Martin were acting really well together, and the makeup and special effects were looking good. But as it turned out, being productive was _exhausting,_ so they'd gone into town to refuel on chips and pure sugar—

 _Tap-tap-tap._ A sudden knock on the window. Everyone fell silent and turned to see who it was.

"Joe, it's your dad…" Martin murmured.

"He can see that," Cary retorted.

"Well – I dunno, maybe he…"

Everybody was slightly afraid of Joe's dad.

And it was definitely him, on the other side of the glass – a strong figure in a uniform with a face like a stormcloud. _It never used to be like this_ _._ Joe sighed and got to his feet, feeling the smile vanish from his face. The others made sympathetic noises as he trudged over to the door.

"Good luck Joe," Cary called out.

_Thanks, I guess._

* * *

He stepped onto the street and walked to where Jack was waiting, scribbling in his notebook. He didn't exactly seem happy, but… "Hey."

Jack looked up. "What're you doing?" he asked grimly.

"…What?"

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know what—"

"You're NOT friends with Alice Dainard." He glanced at the the group of teenagers in the diner, who were attempting not to stare.

"…We're just shooting a movie."

"Don't talk back to me. Did you take care of the backyard like I asked you to?"

 _What?_ "No, not yet. I was gonna do it later—"

"Well I want you home, and I want you to clean the backyard, and while you're at it you can take care of the garage. You got me?"

"But we're just making Charles' movie…" Joe said defensively. He had no idea why his dad was so _angry._

Jack took a breath, jaw clenched. His eyes were hard. "Joe, _listen to me_. I've got enough things goin' on right now, and I don't need trouble with you. Are we clear?"

After a moment, Joe nodded.

"Good. Go home."

His father left, crossing the street. Joe stared daggers at his back. Around him, the earth kept spinning; pedestrians walked the footpaths, cars trundled past, every one of them ignorant of the injustice of it all. Ignorant of that sick feeling in his stomach, like he'd just been stabbed in the gut. It wasn't fair.

He gazed at his friends, laughing and joking behind the glass, and let out a miserable sigh.


	8. The Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the movie consists of a lot of 5/10/30-second sequences which I've stitched together with new transitions. Although some of the added character moments aren't exactly… subtle… Super 8 isn't exactly a subtle movie in the first place. The horror-movie scenes are also quite fun to write, in trying to evoke something that's moderately creepy.

_Just like that, things change. One moment you're the happiest kid in the world, with two months of holidays spread out before you and an awesome group of friends. But the next moment…_ _the next moment, you're reminded of everything you left behind._

He pushed the mower across the yard, enveloped by the smell of freshly-cut grass. _Reminded by smile, here and there. By a quiet forgotten corner. By the way your friends treat you slightly differently, like you're gonna break if they hit you too hard. By the way your dad doesn't know how to act when he's out of his policeman's uniform._

The Lambs' so-called backyard was actually on the right side of the house, slightly sloped, empty except for a rusting swingset and a pair of pine trees by the back fence. He remembered sitting on those swings, being pushed towards the sky.

He remembered falling out of those trees once too, almost breaking his arm. That wasn't so great. _He really, REALLY pisses me_ — _really annoys me sometimes. I know it's hard. I do. But he's… he's always there, just being_ him _. A robot. Like he doesn't care, or can't, or won't._ _And now everyone's had to postpone the movie because of me._

The blades sliced and hissed through the stalks, leaving a trail of dead greenery. His jeans chafed against his knees. Sweat trickled down his forehead. The sun was getting lower by the minute, and his shadow stretched out before him like… a shadow. _Too tired for metaphors._

He reached the edge of the yard and turned to start another row – the last one, next to the road. The mower caught on something and he lifted it forward, stumbling a little. _And I can't be friends with Alice because of her_ dad _? What kind of reason is that? Just because he—_

_I don't know. I don't know if I should hate him, or be angry at him, or what. Sometimes I am angry, I guess. People say things._

_But that doesn't mean Alice is like him._

_She's different._

_I_ like _her._

 _…Maybe I like her 'cause_ _I shouldn't._

But that wasn't true, he knew that much. He liked her because she was funny, and pretty, and caring, and because she seemed – seemed to…

Joe smiled. Mr Jefferson, his PE teacher, would say it was all due to teenage hormones. Even if that were the case, he didn't really care.

Suddenly, the mower jerked to a stop as it ground against the mailbox. Joe blinked, looking back at the yard. "All done," he murmured. _About time._ He pushed the mower into the garage, then trudged up the stairs to the front door.

The house was quiet. It was always quiet, of course, but that didn't stop him hoping it wouldn't be. Not much sun was coming through the windows and he felt his way down the entrance hall with ten years of muscle memory, dodging the assorted coat racks and cupboards till he could flick the lights at the far end. _Kind of a stupid_ _spot to put a light switch._

He shivered, suddenly cold, and walked into the lounge. The thick carpet seemed to absorb his footsteps. A faint layer of dust covered the chairs, the photographs, the lampshades – everything except the doorknobs.

It was getting late. Lucy would probably come begging for her dinner soon with that old drooping-tail-and-puppy-eyes routine. He stuck his head into the kitchen, searching for the dog food, before remembering he'd put it in the storage cupboard. _Well, the sun's still up. Maybe I can head over to Charles' before dinner, he said he had that magazine he wanted to show me. And if I can find that extra film canister in the garage—_

 _Oh. I forgot about the garage._ Joe winced. "Still one more stupid job to do."

He tramped to the back room and there was the dog food, sitting on the bottom shelf. _Amazing._ He carried it to Lucy's bowl, crouched down…

The bowl was still filled to the brim with biscuits from that morning. Joe frowned.

_That never happens. Her food's usually gone in five minutes._

_That NEVER happens._

"…Lucy?"

No answer.

"Lucy?"

Her water dish hadn't been touched either. He checked his bedroom, checked the lounge. A quiet house.

"LUCY!"

* * *

The road clung to the hillside on the south side of town, winding behind the steel mill, overlooking flat grey sheds and smoking chimneys. On the other side was forest; dense, dark forest.

"Lucy!" The wind ruffled his hair, made his jacket flap behind him. He stopped pedalling for a moment and snaked from side to side. "LUCY!"

Joe detoured onto the footpath to let a car pass by. There were a couple of big dirt piles lining the road and he coasted quickly between them, looking around expectantly for a flash of brown fur.

Was it stupid, searching for her? Lillian was a fairly big town. If she'd gotten lost somewhere there was almost zero chance of finding her on his own. _She's probably back at home right now, covered in mud, wondering where that kid of hers has gone._

He kept riding. Further and further, letting the sun sink lower in the sky until it was dull and pink, following the road as it zig-zagged up the hillside and left the town behind.

* * *

The summit of the hill was covered in dry, waist-high grass. Joe rolled to a stop, took a couple of steps off the road.

"Lucy!" He dropped his bike in the grass. "LUCY!"

When he was young, they'd often taken Lucy up here so she could run around without worrying about cars or fences or people. They'd play fetch, chase each other, roll in the dirt, and she never got lost, because all you had to do to find her was look at where the grass was moving. And you could see the whole valley from up here – the houses, the mill, the forest. Spread out like a model.

He kept expecting to see a furry shape come bounding out of the grass, panting and wagging its tail.

But she didn't.

* * *

Joe skidded into the driveway and dumped his bike just as the sun kissed the horizon. He ran into the house and barged into his bedroom, switched on the lamp, found some paper, grabbed a blue marker and a photo of Lucy off the wall. As he sat down at his desk he was already scrawling a message.

' _MISSING… DOG… LUCY'_ _…_

* * *

On the bike again, but riding into town instead of out of it. He coasted past the Uniting Church, with its big steel-clad dome and towers, and came to a stop next to the new town hall, a three-storey red brick building with flags flying above the door. Standing in front was a large wooden noticeboard, where people usually put announcements, advertisements and anything else they could think of.

Joe fished his hastily-made poster out of his backpack, found a spare pin and stuck it right in the middle. 'Missing dog: Lucy,' it said, beneath a photo of her happy and smiling. 'Please call Deputy Lamb or Joe.'

But there were a lot of posters on the noticeboard. A _lot_. It was almost completely buried. Joe took a step back, looking at some of the others. Suddenly, he realised that—

***HAVE YOU SEEN ROXY?***

**LOST/MISSING**

**WHITE SHITZU MIX**

****CALL MICHELLE – 165-151** **

_"COOP"_

_Male - 1½ years_

_Terrier mix_

_Very energetic! And approachable._

_Please call the Sutts if you've seen our dog!_

****HAVE YOU SEEN** **PUDGE?** **

**Missing since yesterday**

****Please call with any info…** **

******Bonni – 955-0187** ** **

********Thank you :-)** ** ** **

**H _Juliet & Maggie_**

**E _Bull terriers_**

**L _Missing yesterday_**

**P _Call – 156-3134_**

LOST DOG – KEEP AN EYE OUT

Name: Dodger

Sex: Male

Age: 4 yrs

Colour: B&W

Dave – 585-0181

 _**Sadie – Two Years** _ _**–** _ _**Female** _

_****We need your help to find her** ** _

_******Small terrier last seen on Main St** ** ** _

_********Around 20lbs, has her tags, very friendly…** ** ** ** _

—they were _all_ for missing dogs. All of them. Every single one. There had to be dozens, fifty, a hundred posters overlapped almost three layers deep, completely covering the noticeboard in cut-out photographs and smudged, desperate messages.

_Pancake: missing, white terrier mix, such a nice dog, please help._

_Lost dog. Broccoli. Still a puppy. Will give reward._

_Have you seen James? Purebreed boxer. Please call…_

Joe shivered.

Half the dogs in Lillian must've been stuck up on that board. Half the town, pleading for help.

It was one of the creepiest things he'd ever seen.

* * *

When he finally got back, it was dark. _Really_ dark. He'd had to use his flashlight for the last leg of the journey, holding it clumsily in one hand, the beam bouncing all over the road and not really helping. His legs ached from the ride, and he was still worried about Lucy (plus all the other missing dogs) _–_ but, as he made his way up the front steps, Joe heard voices from inside the house.

He opened the door cautiously. One of the voices was his dad's; it sounded like he was talking to some of his cop friends.

_"We need more help around here."_

_"We've got four men on the Pruitt case alone. We've called into Dayton, they'll be out in the morning—"_

_"That's not enough. People don't feel_ _safe._ _You know why? Because they're not."_

_"We need to get the National Guard."_

Joe stepped into the kitchen, barely making a sound. His father and five other policemen were sitting round the dinner table, still wearing their crisp black uniforms. _Must've come straight from work._ Joe recognised some of the faces – there was Milner, a tall guy with cropped brown hair, and Rosko, with the weaselly face and this intense look in his eyes, plus a few more guys he didn't know. The table was covered in pencils and papers and half-empty beers, and a cold pizza sat forlornly on the kitchen bench. Cigarette smoke curled towards the ceiling.

"—the Air Force isn't answering a damn question," Jack was saying. "They've got trucks at Woodward's house, lookin' for something—"

" _Glen_ Woodward? The teacher?" Milner asked.

"That's the one. No idea what they want, though. Now, Ben heard they were searching for Woodward's 'research'."

Joe blinked.

"Research? What the hell? Doesn't make sense, he's a high school teacher." Rosko scowled. "But all this stuff, the calls, it has to be related, right?"

"Mmm. When the convoy rolled through, I saw a guy riding shotgun in one of those trucks, he had, like – a scanner" Milner said.

"Like a Geiger counter."

"Yeah."

"They've got trucks all over town."

Joe kept standing in the kitchen, listening. A million thoughts flashed through his mind. None of the men had noticed him yet.

"They're saying it's just cleanup at the crash site too."

"Of course they are."

"—but they're taking molds of tire tracks."

"…What?"

Jack nodded. "I saw them when I checked it out two days ago. Two guys, taking molds of tire tracks. That means they're looking for someone. Now what does THAT mean?"

CLACK!

His fingers twitched in shock; the flashlight fell from his hands, clattering on the tiles. In the resulting silence, six policemen turned to face him with varying degrees of confusion.

He swallowed nervously, focused on his dad. "Uhh… Have you seen Lucy anywhere?"

"No, but I'm sure she's around somewhere," Jack said kindly. He frowned in concern. "I, uh, put a couple of slices in the fridge for you there."

"Oh – I ate those," one of the other policemen muttered. "Sorry, kid."

Joe brushed it off. "No problem. I'll find something—"

The room suddenly went dark as the power flickered.

"Hey!"

"Woooaahh…"

"You gotta be _kidding_ ," Jack muttered. He got up from his chair and walked to the kitchen, nodded at Joe's torch as he swept past – "pick that up, will you?" – and snatched his police radio from the bench.

"Hey Vicky, you got power down at the station?"

_"On and off, it's getting worse. And Brook County's in the dark!"_

"Do me a favour and get Water & Power out there right now, will you?"

_"Copy that."_

* * *

Joe clutched the walkie-talkie to his ear and jammed his thumb on the transmit button. "Hey, Charles. This is Joe. Hello?"

Static hissed. He was leaning against the lounge room couch, around the corner from his dad and assorted members of the LPD (who were still heatedly discussing the air force presence). A couple of wet paintbrushes and his _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ statue stared at him from the coffee table. Next to it was his dinner: a glass of orange juice and a soggy bowl of Cheerios.

"Charles, this is Joe. Hello?"

A hundred different scenarios were running through his head, most of them bad, featuring train crashes and army commandos and crazy biology teachers. He stretched his legs out on the carpet. _Come on, come on, pick up… there's like eight people living in that house, at least ONE of them should notice a walkie-talkie going off._

"Hey, Charles, are you ther—"

_"Yeah I'm here, dumbass. What's so important? I was just about to—"_

"Charles, listen. My dad had some of his friends over for dinner and they've been talking about the train crash. They mentioned Dr Woodward, they said the air force was looking for him. And I think the air force is looking for us, too. Over."

* * *

Fifty metres down the road, clutching a walkie-talkie of his own, Charles nearly choked on his own tongue. "WHAT?"

_"The air force. Like all the weird trucks that drove through today, and those soldiers who're cleaning up the crash. My dad said they were at Woodward's house looking for his research. Whatever that means."_

"Joe, who cares! You said they were…" He paused, trying to keep his voice down. His younger brother was lying on the bunk bed behind him, playing with a rubber dinosaur mask. "…You said they were looking for _us_!"

" _Yeah, I think so."_

"Then I was right! We shouldn't be talking about this stuff!"

" _Charles, listen, let me explain."_

* * *

Joe peered around the doorway, made sure nobody was watching. One of the policemen glanced at him curiously as he ambled past on his way to the bathroom.

"So the air force is looking for a car," he began, almost whispering. "Alice's _dad's_ car. They're taking the prints from the crash site, over."

 _"I don't wanna hear about it."_ Charles retorted. " _This is what I've been talking about. They could be monitoring us right now."_

"But it—"

" _Jesus, shut UP!… Over."_ Charles sighed over the radio. Joe heard someone squealing in the background.

 _"You CANNOT flake out on me and be a dick,_ " he said eventually. " _Are you gonna come and help me tomorrow or not? I need you to make Alice a zombie again."_

Joe nodded. "Okay. I'll do the makeup."

_"Good. See you tomorrow, over."_

"G'night. Over."

* * *

Charles rolled over and switched off the walkie talkie, just in time to see his brother stick the dinosaur mask over his head and take a flying leap off the top bunk.

The results were truly amazing.

* * *

Far away, on the outskirts of town, an Ohio Power maintenance truck trundled through the night. It was painted white, with a snub-nosed cab and a cherry picker mounted on the back. Ahead, the road arrowed straight into the distance, dividing up a couple of dairy farms – flat green fields turned black by the starlight, dotted with fences and the occasional barn.

Dave Rooney hadn't seen another vehicle in twenty minutes. He wasn't surprised; nobody in their right mind would be out this late on a Sunday. _'Cept me, of course. And everyone else in the Power and Water department._ He leaned back in the driver's seat with his elbow out the window, following the line of utility poles that ran alongside the road.

They were pretty normal poles at first glance – tall cylinders of wood with the little crosspiece at the top, sticking up from the ground every thirty metres… Except that all the wires were missing. The carrying cables, the grounding wires, they were nowhere to be seen. Like they'd never been there in the first place.

And the wires, well, they were the key to the whole thing, weren't they? Without wires, you didn't have electricity. And without electricity, your power pole was just a pole, stuck in the dirt, about as much use as giant flipping toothpick. And without electricity, people got _annoyed_ that they couldn't watch their fancy TVs and use their fancy water heaters, so guys like Rooney had to drive around in the middle of the night trying to _fix_ things.

He rolled his eyes, but there was no use complaining. _You got a job to do, so let's do it._ He scratched at his thinning sideburns and forced his mouth into a smile, which it didn't seem to enjoy very much.

Suddenly the truck's CB radio buzzed to life; a couple of other repair crews were seeing the same problem.

_"The cables are gone. All the poles are empty."_

_"Same thing over here in Rose Hill… somebody took the damn_ wires _down."_

_"Holy shit…"_

He picked up the handset and radioed home office. "This is Rooney at Mary-10. Was there re-routing on this line?"

 _"Negative, but the grid through Liberty is dark,"_ a voice replied.

"…Yeah, 'cause there's no overhead lines on these poles."

_"Come again?"_

"No power, no comm cables. Stand by."

He kept following the road, peering up at the empty poles. A couple of minutes later he was passing Decker's Salvage – a big fenced-off junkyard surrounded by thick clumps of birch trees – and idly, he noticed that some of the junkyard's lights were still on—

 _There._ The wires were back. He went hard on the brakes and the truck squeaked to a halt; he turned and backed onto the grassy verge, stopping where the last foot of cable ended. Rooney had no idea how he was supposed to re-lay eight hundred yards of copper – y _ou're gonna need more than one guy in a cherry picker to do THAT_ – but if he could get a look at the closest transformer, perhaps he could redirect power through the salvage yard and down another line?

It was worth a shot, so he switched on the truck's hazard lights and hopped out of the cab. The night was warm and there was barely a hint of a breeze as he slipped into his hard hat and yellow rubber safety vest. He trudged around the back of the truck and checked that the switches were working properly, then stepped into the basket on the end of the crane arm and shut its gate behind him.

His radio crackled. _"Hey, Rooney, you got anything in Lillian?"_

"We got a half-mile of copper missing," he announced, squinting at the nearest pole. "Lines are back up at M-38."

_"That – that doesn't sound possible."_

"Well, my eyes aren't lying."

 _"_ _…Okay, t_ _hanks for the info. Truck 14, Rooney's out at the junkyard. I'll give you an update when I hear back."_

Rooney took the crane's controls and began angling it upwards, rising from the back of the truck with well-oiled smoothness. Hydraulics buzzed as the beam extended, lifting him higher and higher, and thirty seconds later he was level with the utility pole roughly ten metres off the ground. The transformer was a battered metal box bolted to the wood, and he rotated the crane until he could reach it.

 _And here we go._ He pulled on his gloves and took a multimeter from his toolkit, attaching it to one of the transformer's contacts. The soft hum of live electricity filled his ears while he waited for the data to stabilise. There were crickets, too, chirping loudly, thousands of them living in the trees around the salvage yard.

Up here, above the surface, Rooney always found it comforting. It was just _him:_ him and his work, nothing else, the real world and its worries far below. He'd never been particularly afraid of heights, so the little basket of the end of his crane had almost become his own private kingdom.

Something clanged in the distance.

_What the hell?_

A metallic clang, coming from the junkyard. Like something falling over. Rooney tried to see what it was but the tops of the trees blocked his view; in front of him were only thick green leaves and a million twinkling stars.

He waited for a couple of seconds, listening for more noise, but – nothing. He snorted, turning back to his work. _Man, every SINGLE time you go out on these night jobs you end up gettin' the heebie-jeebies. You'd think a man would stop being afraid of the dark once he gets past his twenties. Or his forties—_

There was another clatter from the junkyard. He whirled around, just in time to see a big piece of scrap metal pop up above the trees, then fall back down – as if someone was playing catch. Rooney frowned, tried to squint through the leaves. The clattering continued, hollow and echoing, and suddenly other _stuff_ began to fly above the treeline – more scrap, a toilet, what looked like _an entire motorcycle_. Metal shone in the moonlight. Something unseen crashed to earth with a devastating, glass-breaking _crunch_.

Rooney gripped the edges of his basket, twitching at every sound. It was _surreal._ But he didn't think he was scared, not yet – until a battered, dented oven cannoned up from behind the trees, arcing into the night, spinning wildly, soaring impossibly over Rooney and his truck… and slammed into the road with bone-shattering force. It burst apart on impact like a crazy metal snowball, scattering debris across the grass.

Rooney watched it sit there for a second, an incredulous look on his face – then he fumbled at the crane's control lever. The basket rose further, above the utility poles, towards the top of the trees.

Something was still banging and crashing in the junkyard. It sounded a bit like an animal. _No animal I've ever seen, though. Maybe… an elephant?_ He tried to imagine an elephant throwing an oven with its trunk, and couldn't.

The crane jerked to a stop, sounding a warning buzzer. Rooney took his hand off the lever. Full extension. He was about fifteen metres above the earth, now, but still couldn't quite see over the treeline. Silvery green leaves blocked his view. Up above, it was just open sky – endless, open sky. The noises had stopped.

And it was _very_ dark, he noticed. The thick trees, the open road. All dark. That darkness could swallow him up in an instant and nobody would know.

His back prickled.

All alone.

Blind.

He thought of the field behind him, imagined the shadows gathering together and reaching up, plucking him out of his truck and…

Rooney realised his heart was thumping wildly. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. But he kept gazing into the trees, his weathered face quivering a little as he wondered if he _wanted_ to see what was running through the junkyard or if he really, really didn't. _Just_ – _calm down. You're not thinking. You're not thinking straight._

Silence.

Not even crickets.

Below him, the headlights of the truck began to blink on and off. _Click-click. Click-click._ Then the junkyard's lights started doing it too, flickering randomly, bright and dark. Even the ones that were disconnected.

Rooney didn't like that at _all._ He grabbed the crane's joystick and tilted it down, wiggled it from side to side.

Nothing. No response. He kept pushing at it, hoping it would suddenly start working so he could lower himself and jump in the truck and run. In spite of himself, he raised his eyes to the trees again, searching. For something, anything.

Just… leaves. Leaves and shadows. And—

An echoing cry.

A grey blur, crashing through the trees.

The hint of a scream, lungs half-filled. Impact. Flying.

Metal wrenched. Glass cracked as something hit the windcreen, a delicate spiderweb. Blood. The truck rocked on its wheels.

Leaves, falling from the trees like snow.

A shadow, swallowed by the night.


	9. Precious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly annoyingly, the scenes with Joe's dad are more difficult to write, usually because they jump around and keep introducing minor characters. The bit in the town hall and police station? Took hours. The bit with Joe and Alice talking 'bout paint? Took much, much less. The Joe stuff tends to be more emotional and involving whereas the rest is essentially exposition – but hey, it's all fun in the end, and I'm the one choosing to do this to myself :-).
> 
> Anyway! As always, I've added/removed a few lines here and there and chucked the deleted scenes back in. Enjoy the chapter.

"I wanna know who took them!" Debbie Matheson called out. "Twenty microwaves – GONE – from my inventory."

She seemed angry. Jack couldn't blame her – who wouldn't be pissed if twenty of their microwaves went missing in the night? – but it seemed slightly unfair to be directing that anger at _him_. It was the same with the other two hundred people crammed into the town hall: a sea of faces, all staring at him, looking uncomfortably like the beginnings of a paranoid, angry mob. There was Mr. Daniels, usually a reasonable human being, nodding along with the rest of them. There was the Weaver family in their Sunday best, whispering to each other nervously. The air was hot and stifling; the room gloomy and dim. Old watercolours and stuffed moose-heads hung from the walls.

"Twenty microwaves! That's thousands of dollars," Debbie continued. "What are the police going to do about it?"

Jack felt small, standing on the boxy little stage. "We're working on it," he assured her, leaning towards the microphone. "You have to appreciate that everyone's got their own problems and we're having a little trouble keeping up."

"But that's not good enough, Jack! Everywhere you look, things are going missing. We've got trains crashing, _people_ vanishing… _Belmont County's_ without power."

She said it as if he didn't know, as if he hadn't spent the past twenty-four hours trying to deal with that exact problem.

"Belmont County, Jack! The whole county! And there's the dogs gone missing, and the military coming through… You know what this feels like to me?" She paused dramatically. "This feels like a _Russian invasion_."

There was applause at that. Actual applause.

"Debbie, I don't think that the Russians have anything to do with what's going on in town, but I am calling the curfew because of these exact concerns—"

"Unless you can tell me who's been messing around with our stuff, _I_ say it's the Soviets," she said firmly. "I like you, Jack, but we need Sheriff Pruitt back."

More applause. Some enthusiastic shouting. Debbie sat down, and a forest of hands shot into the air.

Jack scanned the room for anybody who appeared vaguely friendly. _This was supposed to be a discussion about the curfew, not a witch hunt._ "We have good people working on that. Mr McCandless?"

Mr McCandless stood up, an older man with wispy grey hair atop his forehead. "Since Wednesday morning I've been having this – this problem," he began. "My ham radio, it's – it's a mess!"

Groans from the crowd.

"Some frequencies which I like to scan, I'm – I'm hearing military chatter. But it's distorted. Some kind of buzz modulation. And I, uh, don't know what it is. Have you heard that?"

On the stage, Jack narrowed his eyes. "Mr McCandless, can I have a word with you in private, please?"

* * *

Jack walked down the steps and dragged McCandless to a quiet corner. The crowd chattered to themselves animatedly as he pulled out his notebook. "So can you describe exactly what happened?"

"Usually you're meant to have your own frequency with these radios," he explained. "But there was these voices, chatter, just coming in right over the top of the signal. It was like having my radio hijacked."

"I'm sure that must be very annoying. You don't know those frequencies offhand, do you?"

"Oh, sure I do! Thirteen-two-zero-one to thirteen-seven-ten, fifteen-zero-fifteen to fifteen-zero-four-eight—"

* * *

And with that, the meeting was over. Jack pushed through the town hall doors, radio frequencies in hand. Once again he found himself with more questions than answers, trying to unravel the mystery that'd swept over his town.

And once again, he found himself pursued by people and their problems. As he walked to the parking lot he was immediately surrounded, and though ordinarily he would've been glad to help, now was simply not the time—

"But Jack, we came home and it was gone!"

"Patty, I'm sorry but I just can't help you right now. Why don't you get in touch with Vicky?" He brushed past, saw Dave Richards standing in the parking lot. "Hey, Dave, you seen Milner?"

"No sir, I haven't," was the apologetic reply.

" _What are you gonna do about the power, it's been out for two days!"_

_"Jack, all the tools in the garage are gone."_

He kept walking, past the big noticeboard with the missing dogs, looking around for black uniforms. Someone came up behind him. "Jack, there's a huge sinkhole by my garage! It sunk almost a foot!"

"Yeah, I'll take care of that. Hey Tom. Tom!"

The detective whirled around from across the street. "What?"

"You seen Milner?"

"No! Have you tried his office?"

Jack snorted to himself. "Heh, 'Have you tried his office…'"

The front room of the police station was jam-packed with people. Phones rang off the hook, harsh and loud. A nervous undercurrent of conversation filled the room and bounced off the walls. Jack made a beeline for the reception desk, peered over the glass dividers at where Rosko was sitting.

"Rosko, I need you to get every radio we have and you tune them to these frequencies. Understand?"

"…No?"

"Just do it." He handed the list of frequencies to him and marched past into the main office. _And whaddaya know, Tom was right._ Milner was sitting at his desk, slacking off by the looks of things. "Hey, Milner."

"Yeah?" The young officer jumped to his feet.

"Don't you have a – a radio scanner with a descrambler?"

"A voice inverter, yeah. At home."

"Whatever. Get it. Bring it down here and set it up for me, would you please."

"Sure thing." Milner nodded, walked off. Jack looked around. The frequencies were important, he could feel it, and if they could just tap into the signal they'd know what the—

"Jack, what is this?" Rosko asked bemusedly.

"I think the Air Force is using unassigned channels," he explained. The words tumbled out of his mouth. "And if that's a—"

"Hey!"

He knew that voice. Jack whirled around and saw Louis Dainard – _Louis-goddamn-Dainard_ – standing right there in the middle of the station, menacing, ape-like, staring darkly at him from furrowed brows. He was sporting his trademark wavy blonde hair, sideburns longer than when Jack had last seen him, a singlet stretched tight across his chest. Another police officer was currently leading him by the arm.

"We brought him in for the car lot and other stuff," Rosko muttered under his breath. "He's clean."

Jack still tensed up a little. He couldn't help it.

"He was at my house yesterday morning," Dainard called out. "You aware of that?"

Jack stayed silent. _No, I wasn't._

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd inform your son that my house is _off-limits_ ," Louis said forcefully. "And so is my daughter _._ "

The other officers hustled him out of the building. Jack watched him leave with hard brown eyes, thoughts churning in his mind.

* * *

Another day, another scene. Joe bustled around his room, grabbing old sheets and clothes and chucking them into the closet. Dust swirled through the air. "I think the make-up was better yesterday," he said apologetically.

"No… it's good. I think it looks good." Alice stepped inside, somewhat gingerly.

"I should've cleaned up my room. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Alice dodged him as he cleared the floor, wearing the same flowery costume dress. Morning sunlight fell through the window, lazy and golden. Today they were filming at Joe's house – the last act of the movie, in which Alice was the zombie – and the makeup was finished but the others were still getting ready, so…

Joe had taken his chance.

A chance to talk. Because talking to Alice was kinda awesome.

He took a deep breath. Alice had walked over to his desk, examining the stained newspaper, the paint, the models. "Did you make all these?" she asked.

"Yeah." He nodded. "There's a knight, and a Spitfire…"

And one in particular, kneeling on its pedestal, green-skinned and grimacing.

"…that one's the Hunchback of Notre Dame. We watched it on TV."

He noticed one of his tests lying on the desk and hurriedly flipped it over (C-minus, it said helpfully, circled in red at the top). It turned into a kind of awkward lean as he tried to look casual, but Alice only smiled and turned away. Joe chucked a few more pairs of underwear onto the grand heap in the corner. He was blinking furiously and bobbing all over the place, and told himself to get a grip.

_Seriously, get a grip._

He tripped over a box and swore under his breath.

_Well, that didn't work. But I guess this is a pretty good reason to keep your room clean from now on._

Eventually, the last unwashed sock had been concealed and Joe shoved his hands into his pockets. Alice was admiring another model, nearly two feet long, mounted on the wall above his bed.

"It's a – a zeppelin. Blowing up," he told her.

"It's neat."

Awkward pause.

Joe realised she was wearing perfume. It was… nice. Sweet. Then his eyes widened as he saw a fun little book lying by his pillow ( _"What's Happening to Me?"_ , it was called; there were far too many drawings of penises in it). He jumped over and pushed it under the sheets, hoping Alice hadn't noticed.

_What now?_

_…Models! She seems to think models are pretty cool, right?_

Joe stepped past and grabbed something from a drawer. Alice took a seat on his bed, and Joe plonked himself down beside her.

"This is the train they want to destroy."

He handed it to her. It was a single carriage about twenty centimetres long: square, a curving roof, a sliding door on either side. The ribbed metal walls were military green, a scratched red undercoat barely visible. She studied it as Joe waited.

"Looks real," she said appreciatively. "It looks so old."

"Yeah – that's dry brush technique."

Alice raised an eyebrow.

"Um… it's when there's a coat of paint, and then you put something like, uh" – he reached over and took one of the small jars – "like Euro grey over it."

Alice grinned. " _Euro_ grey?"

"Oh my god, there's like – fourteen different greys. It gets crazy." Joe rolled his eyes. "And you just pour it onto your paper plate, and then take a dry brush, and then you _barely_ dip it in, and then you make a brushstroke on a piece of paper until there's barely any paint on there, and then you take the model and you make nice short brushstrokes. Like where the wear and tear would be." He pointed at the model. Alice watched intently. "Like around the edges, where the door slides open, where the wheel is. And then you do it again except with, uh…" He grabbed another bottle. "…camouflage grey, or like how I did it, with the insignia red, to make it look like there was another coat of paint, but you could see that it was being scratched off…"

He trailed off, fiddling with his jar of insignia red.

_AAAAHHHHHH—_

Alice smiled and ran a finger over the paint, turning the train over in her hands. Her face was… close. Her hair touching his shoulder. Then, suddenly, she looked at him – really _looked_ at him.

"What was that necklace?" she asked. "The one you were holding at the train crash. Was it your mom's?"

Joe stopped fiddling. It was deathly silent, the sun warm on his back.

He swallowed.

When he spoke, his voice was timid. Devoid of emotion. "My dad gave it to her the day I was born," he said slowly. "She wears it all the time. Well – used to. And… it was bad, how she died, and…"

He swallowed again.

"…but my dad got it back."

He nodded, and tried to make himself smile. Just for a second. Alice looked like she hadn't quite been expecting that answer.

_But then, what was she expecting?_

Joe turned away. Alice was silent, searching for something to say. And then—

Charles abruptly burst into the room, face full of panic. "Guys, what the hell!?" he exclaimed. "No one knew where you were!"

"…We're _here_ ," Joe replied, a bit more forcefully than he intended.

"Well, you gotta play the soldier."

"I thought you were calling Evan!"

"Evan blew us off. He's a pussy!"

Joe winced with his best 'watch your language!' expression. Charles sighed and turned to Alice. "Excuse me."

She laughed. "It's okay."

"But seriously, Joe, I _need_ you on this."

"Charles, I—"

"Please! You gotta do it, you're the only one!"

* * *

Cary brushed his fringe to the side and grinned at his reflection in the mirror – blue eyes and blonde hair peeking out from beneath a battered, oversized army helmet. He bent down and grabbed a flashlight and shovel, held them up by his shoulders.

It was pretty awesome. Kind of stupid at the same time, but pretty awesome.

Behind him, the others dug through a crate that was _filled_ with old army stuff: binoculars, canteens, hats of all shapes and sizes, even a couple of gas masks. The next scene of the movie would require extra props, so they'd decided to raid the army surplus store for costumes. It was a good move. The shelves were piled high with shirts, jackets, pants, ammo tins, sleeping bags, backpacks, tents, all of it coloured a military shade of green. Big US flags hung from the ceiling. Mannequins dressed in combat gear stood on either side of the dressing rooms, next to an Uncle Sam sign that said, sternly, ' _One garment at a time in the dressing rooms. No exceptions!'_

Martin pulled a gas mask over his head, a big rubbery thing with tinted goggles. "Charles, next time you fart, I'm gonna wear this," he announced. He rapped Charles' helmet with his knuckles.

"Ow! What about all those times in chemistry when you—"

"That was the _sulphur_ , Charles! The _sulphur_!"

"Ugh, it stinks in here." Preston was much less impressed with his gas mask, so he found a Russian-style fur hat and slipped that on instead, tugging the flaps over his ears. Cary ran back to the others, his helmet bouncing haphazardly. "Guys, c'mon! How's it look? Look!" He flashed his torch in Preston's face.

"Argh! Cary, that's not good for my eyes!"

Alice strolled past, wearing a dark green army jacket that was slightly too large; she went to the rack and searched for a smaller one.

Charles called her over. "Alice! Alice!" He'd found another gas mask, a black one, with a pipe attached to the filter that made it look like an elephant's trunk. He did his best painful death scream and shook his head from side to side. " _Aiiiieeeeee!"_

"Calm down, you freak!" Cary laughed. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and shoved them onto his face – just as Joe, somewhat reluctantly, appeared around the corner. He was in costume, wearing a button-up collared shirt, plus a thick belt and olive-green pants. A blue officer's beret was perched atop his head.

"I don't wanna do this," he said quietly.

Everyone turned to look.

"Production value!" Charles shouted. He did a mock salute.

"It looks gnarly dude," Cary reassured him.

Martin nodded. "It's not that bad."

"But it's not _comfortable_."

"Dude, it looks great. Just go with the flow."

"It's good," Preston echoed.

Joe didn't seem convinced. He stood there, blinking nervously.

Then Alice walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. "C'mere." Together, they disappeared around the corner.

The others weren't _quite_ sure what to make of that. Martin coughed, adjusting his glasses. Cary took off the helmet, turning it over in his hands.

Then he snickered. "Heh heh."

"Ooooooooh!…" Preston made a kissing face. For once, Charles seemed lost for words.

"What?" Martin shrugged. "It's just a dressing room."

* * *

Alice pushed Joe inside ahead of her and closed the door with a soft _click_. Technically, Martin was correct – it _was_ just a dressing room, a tiny concrete cubicle with chipped white paint on the walls. Joe waited awkwardly, still kind of angry that Charles had forced him into this, still not sure what was happening.

Even if Joe was confused, Alice definitely wasn't. She spotted what she was looking for and picked it up from where it lay in the corner, on top of Joe's neatly-folded jeans. A glint of silver.

"What are you doing?" he asked softly.

Alice didn't reply. She simply turned to him, took off his beret, and slipped the chain around his neck. Cold silver touched his heart; the comforting weight of it settled against his chest. She tucked it under his shirt, quick and businesslike, then did up his top button and brushed down his shoulders.

"There," she said. "You're ready."

He felt himself smile, just a little.

At first, he'd always imagined it covered in blood, clutched in dead fingers, a nightmare. But then, slowly, he'd realised it was the most precious thing his dad had ever given him. The most precious thing he had left. And, somehow, the memories… they helped. There were memories in that silver, and the memories made you strong.

* * *

Jack sat in his deputy's office, filling out reports. He noticed that he was doing that a lot these days – more paperwork, less policework. It seemed to come with age. This report, in particular, concerned Debbie's twenty missing microwaves. Somebody had interviewed a bunch of witnesses, who had, of course, seen nothing. It was baffling. One or two microwaves, sure, even five – but twenty? That was something else. The whole _week_ had been something else. More reports were piled up on his desk, burying his current case files in yellow slips of paper, and since the Sheriff was still missing he'd had to help deal with Pruitt's stuff too. _Missing, for now. Probably dead. But we'll stick with missing, at least until things are a little more sane around here._

There was a knock on the door. It was Deputy Tally; Jack beckoned him in. "What've you got?"

"Good new, I guess," Tally replied. "They've found your dog."

"Where?"

"…Brookville."

Jack was stunned. "Well what the hell do you mean they found my dog in Brookville? That's another county over!"

"Lucy, that's where she is," Deputy Tally said helplessly. "I mean, we've got nearly thirty calls from people who found local dogs, but the thing is, the calls coming in aren't local. Here."

He laid down a big sheet of A2 on the desk. On it was a map of the nearby counties; there was Lillian, roughly in the middle, with the city of Dayton to the east and the state border to the west. A bunch of dots had been drawn in red marker – thirty, maybe forty of them, each with a name above it showing where the missing dogs had been picked up.

But the dots weren't random. On the map, they made a circle. A thirty-mile circle with Lillian in the middle.

"It's like they all just… ran away, in every direction," Tally said quietly. "Just ran away…"

Jack stared at the map. _Running from_ _what?_

* * *

Today, Deputy Rosko was on desk duty. He ran some fingers through his neatly combed hair and pulled out a pen. "So how long has she been missing?"

"Three hours, maybe four. Since breakfast."

"Are you sure she didn't walk over to a friend's house? It happens more often than you'd think."

"Yes, I'm sure! This isn't like her, she just doesn't disappear!"

He put on his best I'm-a-policeman-and-I-can-help voice. "Okay okay, calm down, you're right to be concerned. Just tell me what she looks like."

"I… she's got dark hair. It was in rollers. Do you know what rollers are?"

"Yes, I know what rollers are."

"Okay, so she was—"

There was a stack of radios on Rosko's desk – a big police radio, a ham receiver, and Milner's voice inverter hooked up to them both. Suddenly, the ham radio started chattering.

_"Have you been able to recover?"_

"Hang on." Rosko slid over and twisted the dials; the signal was almost buried by static. Then, a reply: _"…Negative, unable to recover data."_

"I'm sorry, could you just wait for one second? Hey!" he called out. "Jack, Milner, get over here!"

They came running, Milner from his desk, Jack from his office with Tally in tow. "You got a signal?" Jack asked, dropping into the nearest chair.

"Yeah, I've got one. Faint, but it's there. Listen."

_"…so only carriage two wasn't breached?"_

_"Yes, confirmed. Fangs out."_

Jack looked up. "When'd you start getting it?"

"Just now."

They strained to hear, leaning in close. There was a beeping sound faintly audible under the crackle, like some sort of code checker. " _…local position zero-niner centre. We're moving it back to Greenville tomorrow."_

"Greenville? That's definitely Air Force," Rosko declared.

Tally nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it's Air Force, but what does it mean? What are they doing transmitting on these frequencies?"

_"…I repeat: negative, unable to recover data."_

_"Then stage two is a go. Six-three-niner, return."_

"Maybe they don't want anyone to find 'em," Milner suggested. "Maybe it's not even Air Force."

"I bet you five bucks it's Air Force."

"Five bucks?"

"Yeah!"

_"…Affirmative. We're gonna need units to prepare for Operation Walking Distance."_

_Click._ Abruptly, the signal fell silent.

Rosko frowned. "What did he say? 'Operation' what?"

"'Walking Distance,'" Jack murmured. "Operation 'Walking Distance.'"

Missing people. Mysterious broadcasts. Microwaves stolen in the night. It was like trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle using only half the pieces, while the pieces he _did_ have were scuffed and faded and barely readable at all. _What's it mean? What's it leading to?_ The Air Force had come looking for something. The animals had run away from something. It seemed reasonable to think that, perhaps, those 'somethings' were one and the same, with little old Lillian stuck right in the middle. Thousands of scared people, stuck right in the middle. _This is going to end badly unless we work out what's going on here._ _I know it._ _I just know it._

Jack frowned, thinking hard, and wondered what to do next.


	10. The Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random note #1: I find it strangely annoying to write "mom" instead of "mum". I really should make everything consistent with American spellings/phrases/measurements, but by inner spelling Nazi refuses. REFUSES! BOW BEFORE THE METRIC SYSTEM.
> 
> Random note #2: The transition after Joe visits the cemetery is very abrupt, but it's the best place I could find to re-insert that deleted scene.
> 
> Random note #3: Had a cool idea for the semi-mythical sequel that would make it pretty interesting (and much more sci-fi). We'll see…
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! There's some pretty sad stuff in this one, so I hope I've done it justice.

Joe waited uncomfortably on the corner of Kidson Road, resplendent in his new air force costume. Martin stood opposite, wearing his detective's jacket and a particularly sloppy tie. Behind them, _actual_ air force men were walking back and forth – perhaps a dozen, buzzing around the house on the corner, ferrying boxes through the front door.

A couple of the neighbours had come out to watch. The boxes were all that flimsy cardboard type you'd use to store old papers – company records maybe, or tax receipts. A waist-high wall was stacked up on the sidewalk next to a line of parked jeeps and trucks, and every thirty seconds another man would emerge and add to the growing pile.

"What are they doing?" Cary whispered. "Whose house is it?"

Preston shrugged. "Maybe we should ask."

The others were clustered around Cary and the camera: Charles with his headphones, Preston with the script, Alice doing Joe's job and holding up the boom mike. So far they'd been pretty much ignored, but the whole situation still made Joe nervous (or at least, more nervous than he already was). _The Air Force are meant to be looking for us, aren't they_? He glanced behind him at the house. It was beige brick, sitting on a little hill, with a couple of big windows and a neatly trimmed lawn. No one seemed to be home.

 _Ugh, don't think about that now. Think about your lines. Think about what you're going to do. Don't be too obvious, don't be too subtle, just act natural_ —

"Joe! You ready?" Charles called out.

"Uhh… I guess?"

"Great. Okay, everyone quiet. Three, two, one, action!"

Before he quite knew what was happening, the film reel started whirring.

"I came as soon as I could," Martin said. "What's happening here?"

"Military police investigation," Joe replied. "It was a suicide."

"Suicide? Who was it?"

"A former Air Force officer. He called me last night, said he had a secret that he couldn't keep any longer." Joe jerked into action and handed a manila folder to Martin.

"What's this?"

"He worked at Romero – Chemical. Found out some things, the company was doing. And after what you told me last night at the bar… I thought you should know."

Martin flicked through the folder. Joe prayed no one would notice how sweaty his hands were. Behind him, one of the air force men heaved a box into a waiting truck.

"Are – are we gonna get in trouble for being here?" Cary whispered.

"Shhh!" Charles retorted. "Production value. It's production value."

"Stop _talking_ about production value, I think the Air Force is gonna kill us!"

"Cary. Shut up."

"Don't you think it's just a little bit—"

"Shhh." Charles kept watching the scene and absently shoved his hand over Cary's mouth, who slapped it away irritably. "Don't – cover my mouth!"

"…We just made this discovery today," Joe said seriously, ignoring the catfight behind the camera. "You understand this is top secret?"

"Of course." Martin nodded grimly. "This proves it. They knew, the company knew. Thank you so much for the information."

"I would never have given you this information unless we had worked together in Vietnam."

"Those were hard times."

"I'd rather not talk about it."

Alice smiled as she watched Joe _act_ , standing up straight, stumbling over his lines a little but generally getting through them okay. Suddenly, she heard the sound of an approaching engine; she glanced down the hill and saw a lone police cruiser threading its way along the street. Coming towards them.

She wondered who it could be, and immediately there was a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Understood," Martin was saying. "You're a good friend."

"You too."

* * *

Colonel Nelec waited by the front window of the house. He was an imposing figure in green and blue, his craggy face half in shadow (even with the curtains open it was rather gloomy inside), and he watched his men search through boxes, drawers, desks, all looking for one specific thing. One very _important_ thing.

They hadn't found it yet, which annoyed him. It also made him slightly anxious, though he'd never let it show. As he stood there, waiting by the window, Sergeant Overmeyer walked over with some more bad news. "Nothing so far," he murmured. Overmeyer – a thickly-muscled, dark-skinned man – had a curiously flat voice. The voice of someone used to obeying every order he was given.

Nelec sighed. "How much more is there?"

"About sixty more boxes in the basement."

"What – more tax returns?" He rolled his eyes.

"It's here somewhere," Overmeyer replied confidently. "We'll find it. If not, Woodward will tell us where it is."

"Let's hope so. But I'd rather get it without his help." Nelec glanced out the window, and suddenly noticed a group of schoolkids standing on the corner. They appeared to have some sort of movie camera and were _filming_ in front of the house. "What the hell is that?"

"…Looks like kids making a movie…"

* * *

The police car squeaked to a stop next to one of the parked air force trucks, a short distance from where they were filming. Cary was the first to notice who was driving it. "Joe," he murmured.

Joe turned around.

It was his father. Sitting behind the steering wheel, looking right at them, jaw clenched. After a second or two he switched off the engine and stepped out of the car.

"Hey Mr Lamb!" Preston said brightly.

Jack ignored him and walked straight to Joe, quick and angry. "Get in the car," he said tersely.

Martin stared open-mouthed. The others exchanged confused glances.

Joe just stood there. His dad began dismantling the camera, snatching it from Cary's hands and pulling it off the tripod. Screws clattered to the pavement. Once he had it free he marched back to his son; slapped a _don't-argue_ hand on his shoulder and pushed him toward the cruiser, not saying a word. Alice had to dodge out of the way.

"Mr Lamb, that's your camera, but… technically that's my film," Charles called after him.

No reply. Jack simply stalked to the police car and shoved Joe into the passenger seat, tossed the camera in after him and slammed the door. He shot a venomous glare at Charles, then walked off towards the house without a backwards glance.

Stunned silence.

Joe sat in the back of the car. Alone. Helpless. He was breathing heavily, cheeks flushed with a strange mixture of anger and embarrassment. The rest of the group could only stand and stare, sympathetic and confused.

" _What the hell!"_ Charles mouthed at him.

Alice frowned, tapped her chest. _"Is it me?"_

Joe shook his head. Sometimes, it was better to lie.

* * *

Colonel Nelec walked to the garden, casually, confidently, taking in the sunshine. His boots crunched on the dry grass as he made his way to the police deputy standing on the lawn. Jack was tense, coiled with anger, hands planted on his hips; anger at his son, at himself, at the goddamned US Air Force. In contrast, Nelec was the picture of control, and as he came to a stop he clasped his hands behind his back.

The military man was taller, and Jack had to look up to meet his eyes. There was silence for a moment.

Then: "No more games. I want you to tell me what's going on."

"I would like to help you out, Deputy. I really would. But we operate on a need to know basis."

Nelec smiled. Jack ignored him. "Why're you're trucks sweeping the town?" he asked.

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It's classified. We will be out of your way shortly _._ "

"All right, then I'm sure you won't mind me contacting D.C," Jack said pointedly. "Talk to some friends about 'Walking Distance'."

Nelec was good; he barely reacted. But one of the men behind him twitched at the name.

Still, there was no reply.

"All right, we'll do it that way." Jack turned and started striding back to the car, and got about half-way there before Nelec called out after him.

"Deputy! Let's talk…"

He stopped.

"…Just not here."

* * *

Joe peered through the car window at the two men talking. He wondered what his stupid dad wanted; half a minute ago he'd started to leave, but then the air force colonel had beckoned him back.

A couple of quick nods. He saw them shake hands.

Charles, Alice and the others were still gathered on the corner awkwardly, looking at him with concern on their faces. Once again, his dad was ruining _everything_. His whole stupid summer. He clenched his fists, ground his boot into the floor, so hard that it hurt. Angry, sick, sad, all at the same time.

 _Alice_ …

Overhead, the sun beat down from a pale blue summer sky.

* * *

A photo lay on a the table in a tarnished old frame. In it, three people sat on the grass by a red-painted swingset.

Jackson Lamb was one of them. He looked younger, carefree. Happy. Joe was there too, perhaps five or six years old, kneeling behind his parents and smiling adorably. Jack rested his chin upon the shoulder of a beautiful woman, holding her in his arms; she had long brown hair and a kind face and gazed at the camera with dark, enigmatic eyes. Her name was Elizabeth.

The photo lay there as it always had, on a table by the window.

A key rattled in the lock, disturbing the silence. The front door suddenly swung open and Jack strode through, held it open. A second later, Joe followed. He was still wearing the air force costume, a pretend solider, the blue beret clutched in his hand.

"This is new, all of this, for the both of us," Jack said tersely. He shut the door. It wasn't quite a slam. "Dealing with anything. Just us. So, I'm gonna make this as simple and as clear as I can."

He walked to the dinner table and threw down his keys. Joe stopped in the middle of the room, unable to react.

"You're not friends with Alice Dainard. When I say 'no,' I don't mean 'maybe'… I don't mean 'yes'… I mean ' _NO_.'"

He pushed past into the study and slapped the camera on his desk; then started searching through a drawer, speaking quickly. "I've known Louis Dainard for a lot of years. He's been nothin' but trouble. Your mother used to say he's not such a bad guy, he just needs a chance, that he was _sad_." He looked up. "Well, I tried to be good to him. And I can't, not anymore."

Jack shut the drawer, walked over, looked his son right in the eye. Joe stood there sullenly and met his gaze.

"I will not allow _him_ or his daughter in this house," Jack said forcefully. "I will _not_ allow you to spend time with her, doing projects or _whatever it is that you do_. That's it. I hope we're clear on that."

He pushed past again, bumping Joe's shoulder.

Joe didn't react for a moment. Then he spoke for the first time.

"We're not clear."

His father turned on him, voice full of menace. "What'd you say?"

He held his ground. "We're _not clear_."

"Joseph Francis Lamb—"

"You and I aren't clear about _anything_. We couldn't be LESS CLEAR." Anger, indignation, helpless fury. "Just because _mom_ died doesn't mean you know anything about me. You DON'T. You don't know anything about Alice, either. She's KIND."

"We're not gonna have this discussion right now—"

"She's _NICE_ TO ME!" Joe had never yelled at his father before, not once – but here he was, screaming in the living room with tears forming in his eyes.

"I DON'T CARE WHAT SHE IS! Her father is an irresponsible, selfish son of a _bitch!_ " Jack gulped a sharp breath, cords bulging in his neck. His voice dropped to a whisper that was somehow even worse. "Now, you _listen_ _to me_. I've got twelve thousand people in this town who're scared out of their mind. They've got one person to rely on. It used to be someone else, but now it's just me."

And then…

…they stood there, breathing heavily, their faces inches apart. Joe, red-faced, about to cry. His father, mouth twitching, the fury in his eyes gradually fading and giving way to uncertainty. Realising what he was saying. Who he was saying it to.

Jack turned away and walked to the door, stepped through and slammed it shut as quick as they'd come in.

Sudden silence.

A quiet house.

Joe sniffed, and wiped frustrated tears from his cheeks.

Alone.

* * *

He rode. Up the hill, past weatherboard houses and empty cars, mind blank, focusing on the click of the wheels, the buzz of the chain, the handlebars cold beneath his fingers. H'ed traded the ill-fitting army uniform for his old blue jacket and jeans, a backpack across his shoulders. At the top of the hill was a big grassy area surrounded by a chain-link fence; Joe crossed the street and rode through the open gate.

The cemetery was beautiful at this time of night. A vast, rolling field, bordered by the remnants of ancient forest – oaks, ashes, pines, looming thick and dark. White-painted funeral buildings clustered in the centre, the old water tower perched in the distance. Gravel paths criss-crossed the grass, dotted with flowers. The sky was a gentle pink, slowly mixing with grey, and the air was perfectly still.

And the graves. So many graves, stretching over the hill.

There was only one that mattered.

* * *

Some time before, night had fallen. Crickets chirped in the trees. Streetlights twinkled in the distance. Joe sat with his back to the cold, hard stone, staring blankly across the field.

He missed her.

_Elizabeth Lamb_

_May 26, 1942_

_February 3, 1979_

_Beloved Wife and Mother_

So, so much.

They said it was good to feel sad. They said it would take time to heal, to move on, and that he should always cherish her memory. And, when he considered it, he knew he was getting better. But sometimes, he'd be mucking around with Charles or eating dinner with his dad and something would happen, something completely innocent and that painful, incredible emptiness would flare up red and raw, all over again. Afterwards, he always came to the cemetery thinking it would help, thinking that just _being_ here, close to her, would somehow fill the hole in his heart.

It never did. But he had to try.

The locket was chilly in his hands. Silver, glinting in the starlight.

 _And every day, you forget something else about her. What her hair felt like, how she laughed. Some other golden memory. So you try to remember. You keep it hanging round your neck and feel it against your chest and hope it'll somehow keep her near. You keep trying to hold onto her even though she's gone forever. Is that so wrong?_ He clicked the locket open and held it up to his face, stared at the tiny photo inside.

A smile every day when he came home from school. A kiss on the cheek on a cold winter's night. Always that same longing – the need to feel close to her one last time.

The crickets chirped in amusement.

A bouquet of old flowers was propped against the grave, which he and his dad had put there last week. It had seemed like an important gesture, at the time, but it was only one of many – one of thousands. Thousands of granite headstones, arranged in neat lines, dotted with rumpled flags and flowers of their own.

 _We all miss them._ _But we can never bring them back._

His dad should've been able to understand. He should've been the only person who _could_ understand, except he… didn't. Sometimes, his father looked at that locket as if… as if wanted to throw it away, out of sight, like he couldn't bear the reminder. _'Just because mom died doesn't mean you know anything about me. You DON'T.'_ Or maybe he did understand. It was impossible to know, and that was the single most frustrating thing. Jack Lamb just kept it all inside; hid every feeling behind a clenched jaw and sad eyes, pretending that things were normal. Pretending that they were _all right_.

They weren't. And Alice had been the only thing he could hold onto.

He'd properly known her for less than a week, but somehow, with her, he didn't feel alone. Instead, he felt happy. He felt _whole._ He could smile, and laugh, in a way that he couldn't with Charles and Cary and the others. He could talk. She _understood_. And now, his dad was trying to take that away.

Alice Dainard wasn't like her father. She was different. And she hadn't had anything to do with…

With…

_Clang!_

Joe looked up. An impact, somewhere in the distance.

_Crunk!_

There it was again – louder. He jumped to his feet, peering into the darkness.

Joe knelt down and rummaged around in his backpack for his flashlight. He switched it on, holding it out in front of him. Pale white light swept over the cemetery, over crosses and flowers and neatly-trimmed grass.

_CLANG!_

His breath caught in his throat. He whirled around, holding the torch like a weapon. As his imagination took over, Joe began to think that being completely alone in a cemetery at night probably wasn't such a good idea. _We had to make a movie about_ zombies _, didn't we._

Graves, trees, shadows. Irrational fears.

_Crunk!_

There was a gravedigger's storage shed at the eastern end of the cemetery, a square white building with big gated doors. Something was clearly going on inside; the lights were on, but they were… flickering, and there was this low, thudding, _scratching_ noise. And, peering closer, he could see stuff flying past the windows – dirt, it looked like. Clumps of dirt, as if a dog was digging a hole.

A really BIG dog.

_Crash!_

Suddenly, a black shadow pressed against the window.

* * *

She had pale skin and a beautiful, open face, and she held a baby in her arms – a few months old, with dark eyes and the thinnest brown hair. She smiled. It was a warm smile, infectious, even through the ghostly light of the projector.

Joe couldn't help smiling a little too. She looked up and said something to the camera, made a face. No sound, but he could imagine her voice. The camera moved closer and suddenly the baby woke up, began to squeal, reaching for his mother's face.

 _'Go away!'_ she mouthed, laughing. _'You're scaring him.'_

The person behind the camera loved them both very much. You could see it in the way the camera moved, the way it focused on that smile.

She was twenty-four years old.

The projector whirred softly. Joe lay on the floor of his bedroom, leaning on his arms, gazing at the images that danced upon the wall. His face was bathed in that pale, flickering light, keeping the darkness at bay.

After seeing the shadow at the cemetery, Joe had hurried to his bike and ridden straight home. It was something he didn't want to think about. It was something he _couldn't_ really think about, not without getting closer to see what it actually was, and there was _no_ chance of doing that on his own. So, as soon as he got home, he'd found the plastic bag of film reels he kept on the top shelf of his cupboard. He'd been watching them ever since. Not because he was scared – he'd forgotten his fear after coming through the door. But because… remembering was nice. Remembering was all he had.

She leaned against a fence, somewhere in their garden, framed by a tangle of overgrown bushes. Her hair fell freely over her shoulders and the straps of her summer dress. She was answering a question, speaking to the camera. Speaking to his father. She touched one of her earrings absently.

She was twenty-six years old.

The projector buzzed, and suddenly cut out.

Silence. Blackness. Joe frowned, waiting to see if it'd come back on. He leaned over, flicked the switch a few times, but – nothing. He checked his alarm clock, then sighed disappointedly. _Screen's dark. Another power failure._

He stared blankly at the wall, lost in memories.

* * *

Jack crept down the hallway as quiet as he could, footsteps muffled on the carpet. The house was dark, almost pitch black, except for a sliver of bluish light flickering under the door at the end of the hall.

He stopped before the door and leaned close to the wood. After a second, he heard a soft _whirr_ , barely audible.

He listened for a moment.

Then he stepped back out into the kitchen. He picked up his gun from the dinner table and clipped on his badge.

A minute later, a police car pulled out of the driveway and sped off into the night.

* * *

The car swung through the gates of the Lillian Airfield, moon shining brightly overhead. Jack Lamb sat tall behind the wheel, filled with a grim sense of purpose. _'Meet me at the airfield,_ ' Nelec had said. ' _Midnight tonight, not a word to anybody else. You'll get your answers.'_

In all likelihood, there wouldn't be any answers and he'd be turned around and sent straight home. But he had to take the chance. _The only thing you've got to lose is yet another good night's sleep._

The airfield was small, as airfields went, and lay on the outskirts of town. It was entirely used for cargo these days; the processing terminal was a low-roofed building on the eastern side of the taxiway, surrounded by big steel sheds. Two runways were cut into the surrounding field, dim and grey. He drove onto the tarmac. Suspension squeaked. Jack noticed a line of air force trucks parked by the fence, next to a disused set of passenger-boarding steps, and aimed towards them. It certainly felt weird driving along the arrow-straight asphalt without a pair of wings to either side _—_

 _FLASH!_ Suddenly the windscreen was blasted by dazzling white light. He slammed on the brakes, blinded, raised a hand to shield his eyes.

 _What the hell?_ A semicircle of jeeps was blocking the taxiway, their headlights pointed straight at him. Silhouetted soldiers knelt on the tarmac, with poses that said, much louder than words: ' _I am holding a gun and I am ready to use it.'_

Swiftly, the police car rolled to a stop.

Jack frowned. He opened the door and stepped out, more confused than anything. He glanced behind him as another two jeeps swung out of the darkness, and a dozen more air force men piled out and raised their weapons.

Then a voice, over a loudspeaker: "Deputy, drop your weapons and put your hands on the car."

Jack didn't move. "I'm here to see Colonel Nelec!" he shouted, squinting into the light. "He told me to meet him here!"

"You're under military arrest. Drop your weapons."

Silence, for a moment. Jack stared into the mouths of a dozen black gun barrels.

"Where's Nelec?" he asked desperately.

"Deputy, I won't tell you again. _Drop_ your weapons."

"WHERE'S NELEC!?"

* * *

Colonel Nelec, actually, was less than two hundred feet distant, standing with arms folded next to a clean military hospital bed. Sergeant Overmeyer waited beside him, hands clasped behind his back. The airfield cargo hangar had been converted into a sickbay: ten beds were arranged along the walls, five to a side, separated by clear plastic sheeting. Lights hung from the curved roof. Next to each bed was a small table, holding trays of surgical equipment and bottles of disinfectant.

All of the beds were empty, except one. Its occupant was covered in a clean blue blanket. A heartbeat monitor beeped softly in the background.

"I don't want any more trouble, do you?" Nelec murmured. "Hmm?"

Dr Glen Woodward gazed up at him. Deep, oozing cuts were scratched across his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, and the bandages stuck to his face were soaked through with pus and blood. He looked exhausted. In pain. His wrists were tied to the bedframe with thick leather straps, every breath a labour. His eyes, though, were as fierce as they always had been – the same bright eyes that had scared so many kids at Lillian Middle School.

Sick, scarred, but very much alive.

"We've been going through your belongings, looking for evidence," Nelec said slowly. "What you knew. How you knew it." He paused. "Who _else_ might know."

Woodward's mouth twitched, but he didn't speak. Flies buzzed through the hangar, settling on the dried blood on his face.

_Beep… beep… beep…_

Nelec leaned down over the bed, until their faces were inches apart. "You know, Glen – I remember you," he began. "I remember you in the lab. And I recall we didn't always see eye to eye, but that… is no excuse for doing what you did here."

Woodward stared.

Nelec smiled. He had a patient, sing-song voice, like he was scolding a petulant child. "So in… the spirit of moving forward and avoiding more _trouble_ , why don't you just tell me where you put your research. And who else knows about it. I know you had someone document the crash that night. Tell me who that was and I will help you. I swear to God on my mother's life, if you help us now we _will_ take care of you."

Across the hangar, Overmeyer filled a syringe with the contents of a bottle. The bottle was small and yellow, the symbol for 'poison' etched into the side.

_Beep… beep… beep…_

"I've seen… what happens, Mr Nelec… when you take care of people," Woodward said quietly.

"I'm being genuine, doctor."

"No… you aren't. You never are. And something like him doesn't… _deserve_ the likes of you—"

"It is _MINE!_ " Nelec interrupted. "He is _MINE_. I'm gonna bait him, and catch him."

"You'll try."

_Beep… beep… beep…_

"He's in me… you know," Woodward said cryptically.

Nelec frowned. "What?"

"…He's _in_ me. As I am in him. So…" He coughed heavily, an air of finality to his words "So… when you see him next, as I'm _sure_ you will… _I'll be watching you too_."

Sparkling eyes, filled with belief. Nelec leaned back – unsettled, just for a moment.

_I'll be watching you too._

He stepped away from the bed and gave Overmeyer a small nod. The syringe was injected into a drip, taped into the doctor's arm.

_Beep… beep… beep… beep beep beep beep—_

The doctor's body jerked as if a million volts of electricity were suddenly coursing through his veins. Muscles locked, shivered, his head jolting from side to side. Arms wrenched viciously against their restraints. The bed shuddered.

Overmeyer looked on passively. The syringe was still in his hand.

_Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep—_

Woodward kept shaking, one arm spasming outward and smashing into a table, sending bottles crashing to the ground. A guttural groan escaped his lips, eyes wide, staring, almost entirely black. He struggled, this way and that—

_Beeeeeeeeeeeee—_

Struggled, and—

— _eeeeee—_

Struggled, and—

— _eeeeee—_

…fell still.

— _eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep._

Nelec turned away, his teeth gritted, and waited for the doctor to die.


	11. Alice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about why Super 8 affected me so much, and there's one main reason (which is a bit cheesy, so bear with me). Basically, I watched it at the perfect time of my life, when I was starting university and first having to deal with being an adult and (ugh) responsibilities. I realised that having a group of friends like Joe's and just mucking around wasn't something I could really do anymore, and… I like all that stuff! Everyone likes being a kid. Now, obviously you CAN still have friends when you're older, but it's not the same as when you're young, with a huge imagination and not a care in the world. It's different.
> 
> I guess the movie made me think about recapturing that, and what friends mean. Though I'm kind of a loner in reality, the best times of my life were all spent with my friends – laughing, talking, going on adventures like Joe and his friends in the movie. Ultimately, it made me realise that what I value most in the world is friendship.
> 
> It feels like I just typed out the ending to a Pixar movie or something.

_Tap tap tap._

That was the noise it made in his dream. A tinny, metallic tapping sound, coming from inside the train carriage. The grass was on fire. The the sky was full of smoke. He was alone, and he was scared, and he wanted to run and run but an awful, powerful curiosity kept drawing him forwards. There was somebody inside. Some- _thing_ inside. He leaned closer, reaching out to touch the metal…

_Tap tap tap._

His eyes flicked open.

It took Joe a second to remember where he was – curled up in bed, surrounded by his models and messy bedroom, trying to catch a decent night's sleep and forget the previous afternoon. He wondered why he'd woken up. It was still dark outside, the barest hint of moonlight coming in through the windows.

_Tap tap tap tap tap._

Joe frowned and propped himself up, blinked a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. There was that noise again, as if someone was—

Alice was standing outside his window.

She totally was. Standing outside the window above his desk, tapping like a friendly ghost. They locked eyes. She grinned at him from behind the glass. _Tap tap tap!_

Joe kicked off his sheets quickly, suddenly awake. He — CLUNK! — winced as he tripped on a box in the darkness, limped over to the window and fumbled at the lock.

Alice stuck her head through, still smiling. "Are you – were you sleeping?" she asked quietly.

"Before. Earlier… no." He paused. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Awkward silence.

"…You wanna come in?"

"Yeah."

"O-kay." Joe moved the set of models on the windowsill and pushed the window all the way open. Alice levered herself up and swung her legs through the gap, stepping gingerly onto his desk. Joe took her hand and she hopped down to the floor.

He flicked the light switch a few times but it stayed dark. _Click-click_. _Click-click._

"Power's still out," Alice murmured.

Joe glanced around and smiled. "Room's still messy."

* * *

Alice sat against the end of his bed, knees drawn to her chest, wearing jeans and a dusty green jacket. Joe sat across from her in his thin grey pyjama top, cross-legged against the opposite wall. He'd cleared away most of the clothes and junk on the floor – except for the old projector, which lay half-way between them.

"I couldn't sleep," Alice said, looking at him.

"Why?"

"Just – I was thinking. I wanted to tell you something before tomorrow…" She trailed off and shook her head, hair falling around her shoulders. "Don't let Charles blow up your train. I don't think it's right. I know it's for the movie, and I know he's your friend, but he's so bossy—"

"He can be sorta like that. But I've known him since kindergarten," Joe reassured her. "He's – really nice."

"He shouldn't always get what he wants." Her eyes flashed. "I mean, who always gets what they want."

She looked down. For a moment, it was quiet. Crickets chirped in the warm summer's night.

"I know… I don't know you at all," Alice began. "Even though it – sort of feels like I do…"

She smiled nervously. Joe swallowed, but didn't answer.

"…Do you not – feel like that?"

"No. No, I totally do," he replied quickly. "I'm just kind of… in shock, at this entire conversation."

And then the power came back.

_Clunk._

The projector suddenly flickered to life, as did the alarm clock on his desk. Joe and Alice turned to look, surprised. Bluish light splashed against the wall as the film started spinning.

_It was his mother. She held him in her arms, only a baby, smiling as he played with the silver locket that hung around her neck._

"Power's back," Joe muttered. He scooted along the floor to the projector, was about to switch it off when Alice interrupted him.

"No, no – keep it."

Joe paused, not really sure if he should. Unsure if he wanted her to see. Alice turned back to the movie, leaning forwards as if she was drawn to it. She crawled a little closer to the screen. "Is that her?" she asked.

"Yeah." After a moment, he took a seat on the carpet behind her and started watching too.

_Elizabeth Lamb glanced at the camera, then at Joe in her arms. He was sucking on the silver locket, holding it in his pudgy little hands, content. She kissed his cheek, tried to take it off him. 'No,' she mouthed silently. 'We don't eat that.'_

_Cut to his first birthday party: Joe sitting in a high chair, a party hat upon his head, a birthday cupcake and single candle resting on the table. His mother stood by his shoulder, and blew it with a single quick puff as his father clapped beside him._

_Suddenly, he was crying. His mother picked him up and held him to her chest._

Silence, except for the soft whirr of the projector. Alice watched the screen intently, couldn't take her eyes away. Joe stared at her back; wondered what she was thinking.

_Now he was four or five years old, standing by the bathroom wall. His mother straightened his shoulders, then took a pencil and marked his height on the paint. It was an inch or two above the last one._

_Cut to the garden. Joe held out his arm, pointed at a scratch on his wrist, face screwed up in pain. Elizabeth knelt down and kissed it better as his father held the camera, same as always._

_Then, Christmas morning: a pile of presents, ready to be opened, a tree in the corner adorned with ornaments and tinsel. Joe was sitting on the floor, unwrapping things gleefully, while his mother had already opened one of hers – a pendant, which she slipped around her neck._

_'It's beautiful,' she mouthed. Then she looked up,_ and suddenly it was like she was looking out of the screen, out of the past. At him.

"It's… it's so weird," Joe said, almost whispering. "Watching her like this. Like she's still here."

_He lifted his present into the air, a Tinkertoy wooden plane. Elizabeth glanced at the camera with a signature knowing smile._

"She used to look at me… this way, like really _look._ And… I just knew that I was there. That I existed."

Alice swallowed. Kept watching the screen. If she'd turned around, Joe would've seen the tears begin to form in her eyes.

_Christmas passed. They played outside in the sunshine, lying on the thick green grass. Spinning. The camera zoomed close, taking in windswept hair and wide smiles._

"He drank that morning," Alice said, quivering a little. Still gazing at the film. Forcing herself to. "My dad. He missed his shift."

_Standing in the trees, in the cool shade. His mother holding him high in the sky so he could flap his arms and pretend that he was flying._

"Your mom took it for him. The day of the accident." Alice sniffed, biting her lip – trying to go on, even as the tears crawled down her cheeks. Just the two of them, sitting in the dark with the eerie light of the projector.

A long pause. Joe sat, waited, quietly stunned.

Alice took a breath. "He… he, um… he wishes… I _know_ he wishes it was him instead of her," she said slowly. "And…" She closed her eyes. "And… sometimes I do, too."

The movie flickered onwards.

"Don't – don't say that. He's your dad," Joe said, as if that fixed everything.

Alice stayed quiet.

Maybe it did.

_Standing in the sand, pushing him on the swing. Higher and higher, full of joy, reaching out to touch the sky._ And as he reached the top of his swing—

The wall went blank. The film reel spun to a stop, finished.

In the silence, something rattled on Joe's desk – a low, buzzing hum. They spun towards the sound on reflex, Alice with her tear-streaked face, Joe still searching for the right thing to say.

_Bzz-bzz. Bzz-bzz._

It was the cube. The small white cube Joe had recovered from the train crash. He'd almost forgotten it was there with the events of the last few days. It was vibrating, nearly imperceptibly, dancing on the wood.

They shuffled over to the desk and knelt down, peering at the strange object. Alice sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Is… is this normal?" she asked curiously.

He shook his head. "No. This is new."

The cube rattled from side-to-side, making a staccato hum on the wood. Joe grabbed a pencil and poked it cautiously. The cube made a kind of warbling sound and shuddered away, jittering onto a piece of paper.

He glanced at Alice. _What the hell?_ The cube didn't appear to have changed from before; it was still the same dirty-white colour, the same jagged, pointy shape. Except…

He leaned closer. Immediately, the shuddering got louder, higher, increasing in pitch and the cube suddenly _blurred_ – Alice let out a scream and they leapt backwards, falling to the floor – as it left the table and _whizzed_ across the room, blasting through the far wall with an explosive _CRUNCH._

Joe lay there, stunned, heart pounding. There was now a five-inch hole in his bedroom, right through the middle of his space shuttle poster. A model TIE fighter swung merrily on its string, knocked aside by the cube's passing.

Alice was shocked. Speechless. So was he, for that matter. Joe got to his feet, stumbling over to the wall. Cautiously, he lowered his eyes to the hole it'd left, still trickling dust and splintered brick; peered through it and saw… the old water tower. Standing on the hills on the far side of town.

It was almost hidden by the trees and the distance, but he could see the red warning light blinking on top of the tank, could see the metal underside illuminated by a couple of streetlights. It was maybe forty meters in height, perching on three metal legs and looked… the same as always. A bulbous tower of shadowy, rusting steel.

He glanced at Alice, then through the hole again, wondering about that little white cube. Wondering what had happened to the thousands of others which had scattered from the broken train.

* * *

It was a cool night. Dark, quiet, except for the sodium glare of streetlights. As he walked her to the end of the road, Joe thought about what Alice had said.

There was a _lot_ to think about.

But he didn't say anything. They simply wandered together down the hill, past the rows of sleeping houses. Alice's bike clicked and squeaked as she pushed it along beside her. Joe wore his rumpled red dressing gown, the hem dragging along the grass. He held a pair of walkie-talkies in his hands. It was a weird, companionable sort of silence; it felt like saying something would… break it.

They reached the corner, and stopped.

"You can't not tell anyone," Alice said eventually. Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the air. "You _have_ to tell someone. About the crash. About the cubes."

"I know. I know, I know. I just… don't want you to get in trouble with your dad," Joe replied.

"Don't worry about that. It's fine."

He wondered about that. People usually said 'it's fine' when it really, really wouldn't be. Then he remembered what he'd overheard a few nights ago; something his dad had said.

"Um. Sorry I didn't tell you before, but… I _think_ they're looking for your dad's car," he said uncertainly.

"Oh?"

"They know someone was there that night and, I don't know… I – I didn't want you to get scared."

It sounded stupid as he said it, but Alice only smiled, like she always did. "It's okay. But tomorrow morning…" She looked him right in the eye."…you have to tell your dad tomorrow morning."

Joe nodded. Swallowed. Then he took one of the walkie-talkies he'd been carrying, held it out to her. "Probably won't work all the way to your house, but – we can try," he said brightly.

He grinned. Alice grinned back. She took the radio and clipped it to her jeans, was about to get on the bike when she… stopped.

Suddenly, Joe became aware of how close they were. Standing on the street corner in the early morning air. Looking at each other. Him with his dressing gown and mussed-up hair, her still holding the bike, silhouetted by the streetlights.

She… leaned towards him a little. Bit her lip, uncertain. Joe couldn't move and just kept looking into her eyes, sparkling blue in the darkness.

Close.

The moment seemed to last forever.

Then her eyes went blank. She tilted her head, half-opened her mouth and bared her teeth, twitching and staring at his neck.

Zombie Alice was the best Alice.

She stepped back, laughing softly, and gave him one last smile. Then she jumped on her bike and started rolling down the hill, pedalling faster and faster, getting up to speed. Joe watched her ride, her hair flying out behind her. Not looking back.

He kept watching until she disappeared round the corner.

Joe took a deep, calm breath. Exhaled slowly. Then he wrapped the dressing gown around himself and started the journey back up the hill, heart thumping in his chest.

* * *

She rode like the wind, as fast as she dared. Banked close to the corner under the shadows of old, sprawling oak trees, skirted past empty cars and neatly-trimmed curbs, riding up the next hill towards home. The road was a pale grey blur beneath her wheels, glinting in the moonlight. Perhaps it was a reflection of her thoughts; thoughts about a train, and a movie, and little white cubes. About the military, searching for that old beat-up Buick. About Joe, and his mother, and a series of flickering images. About her own mom. About her dad.

Of those things, she only understood two: Joe, and her dad. Of those two, she only cared about one.

A boy, standing on a street corner in his pyjamas. Smiling, and – _knowing._

* * *

Alice slid the key into the lock as softly as she could. Turned it; heard the click. The door swung open and she slipped inside, then carefully shut it behind her.

A lamp was still glowing in the corner, yellow and dim, casting the front room in shadow. She put the keys in the bowl by the door and tiptoed to the stairs, doing her best to avoid any creaking on the dark wooden floorboards. At least there was nobody awake. She grabbed the banister with one hand and began to climb—

"Morning."

Alice froze. The last voice in the world she wanted to hear.

"Want to tell me where you were?" her father asked. He must've been sitting in the dark, in an armchair in the lounge. Probably drunk. "…Or should I tell you?"

She climbed back down the staircase, tense, mind racing. _Breathe, Alice. Just breathe._ But his voice had that ignorant, bullish tone in it which she hated _so much—_ She stopped in the doorway and casually leaned leaned against the wood. Tried to keep her face unimpressed. Unafraid.

Louis Dainard was sprawled in his favourite recliner, white shirt unbuttoned at the waist, a lit cigarette in hand. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the armrest plus a beer on the nearby table, amidst the piles of newspapers and old magazines.

"Sit down," he said, gesturing at the closest seat.

Alice shook her head. "I should go to bed."

"I wanna talk to you, I said sit down."

"I don't _want_ to sit down."

"Ally, I'm warning you."

" _No_."

A puff of smoke curled towards the ceiling.

"Then go," Louis said dismissively. "Be just like your mother, and LEAVE."

He was looking right at her when he said it. He wanted it to hurt her.

And it did. It _killed_ her. "Dad…"

"Go ahead! Go!" He spread his arms, and when she didn't move he only yelled it louder. "GO!"

So she did.

She ran to the front door and burst through, crying for the second time that night even as she tried desperately not to. Her feet skidded across the porch and she went to her bike, pulled it upright and leaped onto the pedals, wobbling, clutching the handlebars as she bounced along the footpath.

"Alice!" Louis came crashing after her, stumbling down the steps, bellowing with sudden, miserable remorse. "ALICE! Alice, wait!" His shirt flew out behind him as he sprinted to the road. But his daughter was already long gone, disappearing down the street and into the dark, cold night.

* * *

She rode like wind, as fast as she dared. Half-breathing, half-sobbing, pedalling with all her might. She swung around the corner and sucked in air, bicycle chain rattling, while on the horizon there was the faintest hint of orange, heralding the coming dawn.

Tires screeched behind her. She checked over her shoulder, saw headlights flash at the far end of the road, getting closer. She pedalled faster, faster, trying to escape everything. Trying to escape the whole world.

Houses flashed past on either side. She rounded another corner. There were no cars on the street, no people. Just the bike, the trees – and the car coming up behind her. The yellow Buick screamed round the bend, suspension bouncing, body scraping the asphalt and kicking up sparks. Alice glanced over her shoulder again, hyperventilating, saw the car only thirty yards behind – and suddenly braked, hard. The handlebars shuddered. She turned the bike around as she slowed and started riding back up the hill, passing the car coming in the other direction.

Louis saw her flash by from the driver's seat. He gripped the wheel tightly, looked back and yelled after her. "ALLY, I'M SORRY!"

* * *

The thing was, Louis Dainard was drunk. And he wasn't looking where he was going. Which meant, as he watched his daughter fly past, that the car was veering a little to the side…

* * *

The car slammed nose-first into the back of a red Ford, parked on the side of the road.

_CRASH!_

It was a sharp, ugly sound, startling in the pre-dawn air. Metal crunched against metal, the hood crumpling and popping open as the two cars slammed together. Glass exploded from the windshield. The Buick bounced up, then down with shrieking rubber as the Ford's brakes and sheer weight stopped it violently in its tracks. Smoke erupted from the engine, hissing and steaming.

Alice skidded to a stop half-way along the street. She looked over her shoulder.

And stood there, one foot on the asphalt, staring at the wrecked car with terrified eyes. Disbelieving. Watching the smoke pour into the air. Unsure if she should go back and check or just…

The echoes faded. It was suddenly quiet.

She scrunched up her eyes, holding back the tears – then opened them, taking ragged breaths, still not moving even though she hated herself for it. Wondering what to do.

_It's the decisions we make that define who we are._

* * *

Inside the Buick, Louis Dainard twitched.

The driver's side window was shattered. His head had slammed forward, smashing into the windshield. His face and neck were streaked with blood from ragged, deep cuts. He adjusted himself painfully, straightening his back, then collapsed into the torn-up seat. The seatbelt lay slack against the door.

He squinted, searching for his daughter.

_Ally?_

* * *

Alice saw his head moving through the car's rear window. Saw it look from side to side.

That was enough to make her decide. _I'm…_ _I'm not going back._

And then, there was a sound behind her. A terrible, alien sound – a high-pitched whine interspersed with rhythmic clicking, like nothing she'd ever heard before.

She turned, and saw… it.

Alice stood there, staring up at it for the briefest of seconds before her mouth let loose a piercing, terrified scream—

* * *

Louis heard his daughter scream. The sound was like a knife through the blankets of alcohol and shock and he shuffled around frantically, eyes flicking left and right, until they settled on the rear-view mirror, where there was…

He wasn't sure _what_ it was – a smooth grey shape with too many legs that made his eyes go wide. It was an animal, it had to be, four metres tall and half in shadow as it reared up, clutching his daughter in impossibly long arms. Alice kept screaming, mixing with the clicking and hissing of the creature and the _clang_ of her bike falling to the ground—

"ALICE!" He shouted in desperation, his own screams lost in hers. He tried to open the car door but it was jammed shut, wouldn't budge no matter how hard he tried. He glanced behind him, saw a spiderlike grey blur scrabbling across the grass.

His daughter wasn't screaming anymore.

He went for the passenger door, kicking it with brute strength, fell out of the car onto the side of the road. "Alice!" He pushed himself to his feet and started running up the hill, drunken and bleeding, swaying, calling out her name. "ALLY!"

All that was left was her mangled blue bike, discarded on the sidewalk. Louis tripped over it as he stumbled past; hit the pavement hard, a battered, crying mess.

All that was left. He got up in the middle of the empty street, spinning around in shock and disbelief. Hair slicked with sweat and grime, face covered in blood. Vocal cords shredded as he shouted her name, again and again and again, as if it would bring his daughter back.

" _ALLYYYY!"_


	12. Walking Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice a few more typos creeping in, it's because I revised the first eleven chapters relatively recently, but haven't had time to work through the rest. FORGIVE ME. It'll happen eventually. Till then, just try and ignore my occasional punctuation abuse.

Fire.

It began with the fire, sweeping out in a great arc across the valley. Flames roared in the early pre-dawn light, hissing and smoking, warming the faces of the dozen air force men who were standing upon the hillside.

One soldier stood out in front. He was wearing a thick fireproof suit, and jets of orange leapt from the flamethrower in his hands. The vegetation was burning quickly in the intense heat, hypnotically bright, spreading fiery tendrils through the tall, dry grass.

Nelec looked on approvingly from his position on top of the ridge. The rest of the soldiers stood guard as clouds of smoke washed over them; it was all going according to plan. His radio crackled. _"Firelight is 0500 hours. Operation Walking Distance is in effect. T-minus four hours to evacuation. I repeat, evacuation is T-minus four hours."_

Nelec smiled, and watched the grass burn.

* * *

Donny hummed to himself softly by the window of Olsen's Cameras, casually content in his (he thought) stylish new shirt. He pulled out the box of completed Super 8 orders and started leafing through the yellow envelopes inside, ignorant of the hushed argument going on in front of the counter.

"Why are you not reacting?" Joe whispered urgently. "That thing went _through my wall_."

"I told you not to pick it up in the first place," Charles retorted.

"What are you so angry about? That I'm not gonna let you blow up my train?"

"That's part of it!... Just a part."

Donny walked over and chucked Charles' envelope on the counter – 'RUSH' was stamped on the side in red – along with his ten bucks' change. He leaned forwards, arms folded on the glass.

"Hey. Tell your sister Donny from Olsen's broke up with Karen," he said, totally not being sleazy. At all. "That shit ended about a week ago."

Charles just gave him an I-am-slightly-worried-every-time-I-talk-to-you look. He checked that his film was in the envelope and stuffed it hurriedly into his bag, then left the shop without another word. Joe followed close behind, his own backpack hanging over the shoulders of his thin blue sweater. The door _dinged_ as they pushed through it and out onto the street.

It was still early morning, with the town still half in shadow. Charles grabbed his bike off the wall, sweating slightly in his baggy striped shirt, doing his best to ignore Joe completely.

"What's your problem?!" Joe asked exasperatedly.

Charles gave him a disgusted look. "My whole movie is a _disaster_ because of you."

"I know my dad's being a turkey!"

"What- _ever_."

Joe felt himself getting kind of irritated. He took a deep breath as he vaulted onto his bike, and followed as Charles started pedalling across the road. They took the shortcut past the big town water tower - riding through the gate in the chain-link fence and between the tower's steel legs, passing in and out of shadow. Tyres whirred on the dirty concrete. The few people that were out and about were giving nervous glances at the air force men who were standing around on the street corners.

"We're still gonna finish your movie!" Joe called out.

"It's not _about_ the movie."

"What are you talking about? Of course it is!"

"Just forget it."

" _Why?!_ There's nothing wrong!" His voice cracked. "We're gonna finish the movie! Your _genius_ movie!"

Charles looked over his shoulder and just shook his head.

But if he'd looked _up –_ past the six legs of the water tower, past its criss-crossing steel frame, past the access ladders and catwalks, all the way up to the fat blue-painted tank that glinted in the sunlight… he would've seen a strange white cube vibrating furiously as it stuck against the metal. Rattling around in the deep dent it had made after slamming into the tank's surface last night, as if it was still trying to push through.

And, over the hill, past the grimy grey towers of the steel mill, he would've seen a promise of things to come – an enormous cloud of smoke billowing up from the nearby forest, chokingly thick, blocking out the bright blue sky.

* * *

They rolled up Charles' driveway and dumped their bikes on the lawn. Charles was still pissed off, frustrated beyond belief. Joe still didn't know why. "I can get the camera back – I know where my dad put it. We can still make the festival!"

"It's not about the movie."

"Then _what_ is it about?"

"Jesus, you don't get it, do you? It's OBVIOUS."

"What's 'obvious?'"

"God, you're a _dumbass_." Charles rolled his eyes and stormed into the house. Joe stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before following him up the steps. "Charles, wait!"

"Just shut up." He strode through the house and burst into his room, with all its mess and magazines and movie posters, Joe a couple of seconds behind. Charles dumped his bag on the ground and tore open Donny's yellow envelope. He took out the film and started threading it into his projector.

"Charles, seriously, what's wrong? I'm going to keep asking until you _tell_ me."

The film reel started whirring. Charles stood up, his face red. "It's you," he said indignantly. "It's you. Happy now? That night of the crash, you started getting all weird—"

"What? What are you _talking_ about?"

"—like, like Mr. Attitude, all of a sudden."

Joe frowned. "What? I didn't - your movie was OVER, that's what you said! You were upset!"

Charles turned away in disgust. "Oh my god."

"I gave you a camera! I _helped_ you—"

"Don't pretend like you did this for me! You didn't do this me, and you KNOW it." Charles walked across the room, and flicked off the lights. "This was never about me. This was always about Alice!"

And suddenly, on the poster board next to the closet, there she was: Alice, from the night of the train crash, dressed in that long beige trenchcoat. Hair tied back, lit up against the night. Charles bent down to check something on the projector; Joe turned to the screen. _  
_

The scene played out just as they'd filmed it. _"I think it's safer if you leave town for a couple of days,"_ Detective Hathaway was saying.

_"John, I don't like it. This case, these murders."_

_"Well what am I supposed to do, go to Michigan with you?"_

Charles slid down in his desk chair, shoulders slumped, watching the movie with a defeated look in his eyes. Joe leant against a set of drawers, fuming silently. He felt kind of sick now that he knew what Charles was pissed off about.

 _"_ Well, you're the one who wanted the wife in the movie," he said acidly.

"Not so you could fall in love with her," Charles shot back.

"What do you care what I think about Alice anyway?"

"Because _I_ like her!" Charles shouted and stood up in anger and suddenly their faces were inches apart. "That's why I asked her to do this thing in the first place! So I could get to know her! Not YOU!"

Joe was stunned for a second. His mind spun, trying to figure out how to respond. "…You like Alice Dainard?"

Charles shook his head. "You're such an _idiot!_ "

Then, from the projector: a loud, muffled _BANG!_ The two of them jumped and whirled around. The camera was still focused on Alice's face but the train was now whizzing past, loud and urgent.

Then: " _Guys, watch out!"_

_"Joe, what the hell are you—"_

All of a sudden there was fear in Alice's eyes. A flash. Then the camera spun sickeningly and they were all running, running across the station platform, Alice, Martin, Joe, Charles in his bright yellow jacket. There was an explosion, bright yellow, and a long, metallic screech that made him want to cover his ears.

" _Oh, my god! Shit!"_

_"Run!"_

A searing flash and the camera fell to the ground. Panicked memories.

_"Help!"_

_"Oh my god!"_

The view was indistinct, just a sea of dark grey, with the occasional bright orange burst as another of the carriages exploded. Another series of sharp _bangs_ rang from Charles' speakers and the camera jerked again, hit by a piece of flying metal. Blurry shapes zipped across the frame. It seemed like the crash was so fast that it had picked up almost nothing – nothing but settling debris, and the clouds of smoke and ash.

"Shit. Look at all that smoke. I can't use this… " Charles sniffed and walked towards the screen. Part of the film caught the edge of his shirt, playing ghostly images on the fabric. "And you won't even let me blow up your train. Everything's _bogus._ "

Dust began to fall as the last of the carriages skidded into uncomfortable silence. Joe slid off the drawers and walked over to his best friend; stood beside him as he stared at the ruined scene. It always felt bad when they argued. No matter where, or when, or what it was about. _I'm sorry, Charles..._

"We could make another train and blow that one up," Joe suggested.

He glanced at his friend, who steadfastly ignored him.

The projector kept whirring.

"…I do like her," Joe said quietly. "Sorry about that."

"Shut up," Charles retorted - but not angrily, this time. "It's okay. That's not even what bothers me." He turned to his friend, then looked miserably at his feet. "...She likes you too. _That's_ what really bothers me."

Joe didn't say anything.

"I know it sounds stupid – why would she ever like me? I haven't leaned out yet, and the doctor says it's gonna happen." Charles sighed.

Joe couldn't help glancing at his stomach. It wasn't _that_ bad.

"…I don't know. Everything's just so bogus."

Light from the projector played across Charles' shirt. It was blurry, indistinct - until, suddenly, a very clear shadow appeared on the cloth. Like a spider, or something.

"Charles." Joe put a hand on his shoulder, pushed him out of the way of the projector. Charles looked down and blinked as he saw it. They turned towards the screen, where—

There was something moving in the wreckage. Something big.

They watched, mesmerised.

The camera was lying on its side, looking at an overturned train car. The view was still dark, blurry, and a couple of long gashes stretched across the screen where the camera's lens had cracked. But something was climbing _out_ of the train car. Something big, _too_ big, just on the edge of the frame. Its shape, its… flesh were bizarre, silhouetted against the moonlight. They could only see its legs, really, long multi-jointed things that quickly clambered out of view. A crab, or a gigantic insect, or—

"Joe, what the hell?... What is that?"

Then, suddenly, it reappeared, a lot closer now - still just an indistinct shape, climbing down the other side of the carriage. A shadow. Out of focus, rippling towards the screen. The carriage rattled. It came closer, closer, one leg almost touching the lens...

And then it was gone.

They looked at each other, fear on their faces, wondering what the _hell_ they'd just captured on film.

Suddenly, an air-raid siren echoed through the daylight. Loud, piercing, rising and falling. Joe glanced around in reflex, unsure where the sound was coming from, trying to remember what the siren meant—

Their eyes locked and they leapt into action. Joe stopped the projector and took the film canister, shoved it into his pocket. Charles picked up their bags and chucked them both over his shoulder. "Come on!"

* * *

It was chaos. Absolute chaos. Up and down the street, all through town, as far as the eye could see. Joe and Charles rounded the corner at the top of the hill and gazed at the scene in wonderment and confusion. Hundreds of people were out on the street – running towards the town hall, hurrying home to grab belongings, talking nervously with neighbours, standing on the sidewalks. Kids, families, shopkeepers, parents, rushing in every direction. A line of cars and buses stretched down the road to the town centre, at a standstill, horns honking. Army jeeps and trucks rolled up on people's lawns as rifle-armed air force men tried to direct the crowds. Above it all, there was the air-raid siren, wailing loudly in their ears.

Joe saw someone he recognised stumble past. "Mr Harkin! What's going on?"

"Evacuation! The fire!" Mr Harkin pointed in the direction of the town hall, quickly kept walking up the hill. Joe and Charles turned to the south and saw—

A huge cloud of smoke looming over the hills, grey and threatening. Eerily close. It had to be almost at the edge of town, just past the lines of houses and the metallic spire of the church. The smell of it filled his nostrils, sharp and acrid. He could see a distinct orange glow above the treeline as flames licked through the haze.

An air force private noticed them standing there. "Hey, you two! Where're your parents?"

"They were out! With my sisters!" Charles had to shout above the noise. "Where are we—"

"Okay, don't worry! Just get on one of the buses, everyone's being taken to the same place!" He pointed down the road, to where a fleet of a dozen yellow school buses was waiting.

Charles nodded and they started trudging down the hill, half-jogging, looking around at all the bedlam. Joe tried to make sense of it all. _Where did the fire start? Where's all the fire department?_ He remembered the town being evacuated once before, when he was still in elementary school, but that had been nowhere near as crazy as this. At every intersection they passed there was another long line of cars, more people crowding the sidewalks, another group of soldiers directing the traffic in their olive-green combat uniforms… men running back and forth, looking for their loved ones, couples clutching bags and piles of clothes, families holding hands under the oddly-calm blue sky. Some were still loading their cars, strapping their belongings to the roof. A bright green news chopper was circling low over the trees. There was a little girl crying by herself on the street corner, and as he watched a soldier bent down to comfort her.

"This is crazy…" Charles murmured.

"Yeah. I've never seen anything like… like this." Joe shook his head. Someone had rigged up a PA system that was blaring information over the shouts and calls of the crowd: _"…the county is being evacuated due to a wildfire that is raging out of control, and threatening to reach the Lillian chemical plant… the evacuation has been called for your safety. Please remain calm as you board the bus... if you are driving your own vehicle, follow the caravan to the evacuation centre… please take with you essential items only..."_

They kept pushing through the crowds as they jogged towards the main street, and a minute or two later, they reached the row of waiting buses. They shuffled into line, sticking together; the smoke was starting to reach the town itself, and a thin grey haze was floating over the nearby rooves.

Joe tapped his friend on the shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Charles nodded, a little out of breath. "Still got that film?"

"Yeah."

Joe looked down the street, then back at the hills. You couldn't see the fire from here, but the siren was still going. _"Wait, wait! Please wait!"_ someone was shouting. _"Wait!"_ Up in the direction of Taylor Avenue, two cars had slammed into each other, with baggage tumbling out onto the road. The crowd kept sluggishly moving forwards, filling up the buses.

"Where do you think we're going?" Joe asked. "If everyone's going to the same place it has to be pretty big…"

And then, suddenly, they were at the front of the line. Despite everything, the air force had managed to keep some semblance of order. There was a soldier waiting by the door of the bus, handing out forms – Joe took one with sweaty hands and climbed up the steps, Charles right behind him.

Joe trudged down the aisle, looking at all the frightened faces, at all the people still milling around outside. He sat down in the nearest empty seat with Charles and they scanned the crowd, searching for anything familiar.

"You see your family anywhere?"

"No. You see your dad?"

"No…"

* * *

An interminable wait later, the bus's doors hissed shut. Apparently, everyone had been loaded onto the convoy; the engine gradually sputtered to life and the bus jerked forwards, following whichever vehicle was ahead of them. Joe pressed his face to the window as they drove past hastily-abandoned shops – Carol's Diner, the Pennway pharmacy – that now looked strangely unfamiliar. The streets were almost empty too, with most people having rushed home or fled.

Then, as he looked up towards the front, he saw something that made the alarm bells go off in his head.

There was another convoy coming down the road towards them, except that this one was going _into_ town. It was made up exclusively of those big red cargo trucks, rolling past one after the other – the same trucks that they'd seen cleaning up at the crash site a few days ago, with the white dots painted on the sides of their trailers.

Joe frowned. The air force was moving stuff. _They're moving whatever was in that train into the centre of town, and they're kicking us out at the same time._

 _What_ is _happening?_

* * *

They drove along the highway out of town, heading east, passing fenced green fields and forested valleys, and the tall smokestacks of the nearby power station. Horses flicked their tails as the convoy rumbled past, chewing contentedly on their pastures. The jeeps came first, followed by the big, flat-bed army trucks – then the buses, yellow and green, all packed full. Hundreds of regular cars were dotted in between, piled with luggage and nervous families, kept in strict formation by the air force vehicles (Donny Olsen's Pontiac was one of them, sandwiched between a couple of trucks mid-way through). An endless line of vehicles, racing for the hills.

The adrenaline of the evacuation was beginning to wear off as the sun started to dip towards the horizon. They'd been driving for almost an hour, with Lillian left far behind. Joe watched the hills slide past and idly imagined what his friends might be doing.

Martin would've thrown up at least once by now. Maybe twice.

Preston would be making terrible jokes about burning things.

Cary had probably tried to run _towards_ the fire, loving every second of it.

Charles was right there, sleeping fitfully beside him.

And Alice… Alice could be staring out window, just like him.

* * *

Tanks were rolling down the main street of Lillian. Actual _tanks_. A whole fleet of M60 Pattons, with thick treads and squat bodies and huge main guns. Hundreds of tons of metal crunched along the pavement, thundering and smoking past the rows of parked red cargo trucks. Soldiers manned the anti-personnel machine guns, squinting watchfully in the smoky haze.

It would've been a sight to behold if there was anyone left to see it. The military had taken over the firefighting operation, much to the protests of the county fire department, and everyone else had been forcibly evacuated. The only living things in Lillian now were the hundreds of air force troopers, standing guard with their rifles, and maybe a couple of rats.

Private Cheadle was one of those troopers. He'd been instructed to guard one of the cargo trailers and was currently doing so to the best of his ability, trying not to gawp too much at the passing line of tanks. It was all very impressive; another platoon of air force was due in soon too. The officers hadn't really told them what they were all _doing_ here yet, but it had to be pretty important to bring in all this heavy armour. He could see the tanks reflected in the glass of the shop window across from him, and smiled inwardly as he saw one run over a postbox. Metal screeched is it got caught under the treads.

Then Private Cheadle heard another noise. He frowned, listened.

There it was again. A repeated dull clanging noise, coming from _inside_ the red trailer. He turned around and looked up and down the cargo trailer – there was nothing inside that could move, was there? Only those pallets of strange white cubes…

He grabbed Private Hudson, who was standing guard on the other side. "You hear it?" he asked quietly.

Hudson nodded.

Wordlessly, they walked to the end of the trailer and unlocked the compartment doors. Cheadle fingered his weapon reflexively as Hudson pulled them open—

Inside, big storage pallets were stacked from floor to roof, leaving a small aisle in the middle so that you could walk up and down the trailer. And hovering in the aisle were hundreds of white cubes – zipping back and forth, banging against the walls like a swarm of angry bees. Cheadle didn't know whether he should scream or laugh. Somehow they'd managed to wriggle out of the boxes. Somehow, _they were flying_.

They slammed the doors of the trailer shut before one of the damn things could get out. Hudson locked it – firmly – as Cheadle ran to the nearest commanding officer, who would hopefully know what the _hell_ those things actually were.

Maybe they would need the tanks after all.

* * *

Colonel Nelec sat in the driver's seat of his jeep, watching his troops march past. Watching the tanks roll by. Now that Operation Walking Distance was in effect, it meant the air force could pursue their escapee without any… inconvenient witnesses. They would sweep the town street by street and catch it once and for all. _And we will not let it escape again._

"Sir!"

He glanced upward. Two soldiers had suddenly appeared next to the jeep, privates he didn't know – Cheadle and Hudson, according to their tags. They looked rather jumpy as they snapped off their salutes. "Yes?"

"You asked us to report anything unusual! And… we got something unusual!" Cheadle said.

"We got something in the container, sir!"

"Yeah!"

"We heard a noise, we opened the door, we don't know what it is!"

"You gotta take a look at this!" They were shouting over the noise of the tanks, nodding emphatically at each other like they still couldn't quite believe what they'd seen. Nelec was already out of the jeep and gestured at them to lead the way. He started hurrying towards the truck—

"Colonel!" Nelec whirled around, saw Sergeant Overmeyer coming up behind him with a sheet of brown paper in his hands. "We got a match for the tire tracks from the crash site!"

"Is it local?" Nelec asked.

"Yeah – the car was actually in a wreck of its own last night!"

"…Who's the driver?"

Overmeyer handed him the papers. It was a photocopy of a car's registration records… a 1968 Buick GSX that belonged to a certain Louis Dainard. Nelec smiled grimly.

"Find him! And bring him in!"


	13. The Plan

"Hey, Charles. Wake up. I think we're here."

"Huh… what?"

"We're here." Joe tapped his friend on the shoulder.

"Where's 'here?'"

"Greenville. The Air Force Base." Joe leaned forwards and peered out the windows as Charles blearily opened his eyes.

The air force base was a big complex of buildings close to the Indiana border, about fifty miles north of Lillian. The convoy was driving along the outer fence; Joe couldn't see much of the base itself, just a couple of aging two-storey offices and a whole bunch of long, corrugated-iron sheds. The sheds had big numbers painted on the sides – one, three, four, nine – and were all starting to rust. He faintly remembered hearing something about the base being shut down a few years back, because it certainly didn't seem to be in use now.

And then the bus was turning. They slowed down, almost to a stop, and trundled through an open boom gate in the fence (' _EAST ENTRANCE,'_ it said, _'AF PERSONNEL ONLY'_ ). A soldier waved them through from a little guardhouse on the side and they turned again, into a big asphalt parking lot that was rapidly filling up. Dozens of cars were already parked along one side of the fence, while school buses pulled into bays to disgorge their dozens of passengers. Snaking lines of people stretched between sheds and hangars. Air force men directed vans and trucks to different areas of the base as more and more vehicles trickled in. Their bus kept going, past the assembly area, driving towards one of the rusting aircraft shelters.

It was weird; the evacuation was all so _organised._ The fire had spread around Lillian incredibly quickly, but the air force had been ready to go as soon as the evacuation was called – trucks, buses, hundreds of soldiers, already spread around town. Almost like they'd been waiting for it. Expecting it.

But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

* * *

Inside, Joe and Charles were escorted off the bus, along with the other passengers – and all of the panic and confusion came instantly rushing back. The whole _town_ was here. There had to be hundreds of people squashed into the creaking hangar, a solid mass of sweat and suitcases, all slowly moving towards the opening at the far end. Daylight streamed in through dusty windows far above, illuminating old scaffolding and scratched wooden walls. Joe clutched his papers in one hand and followed Charles through the crush.

"File in. File in please, file in!"

They passed through the open gate at the end of the building and into the main evacuation centre. This hangar was much larger, cleaner too, with corrugated-iron walls and a roof that stretched high above. The floor had been divided up into different areas based on family name and Charles craned his neck, looking for-

"There! H through N," he said, pointing.

They made their way over to the right-hand wall. A soldier ushered them through a gap in the temporary fence and they started looking for familiar faces. Someone was arguing close by, voice raised over the buzz of conversation.

_"Corporal! I need to get back to my house, I left some medication that my wife needs—"_

_"Sir, the town is_ sealed off _. No one's allowed in."_

_"But I can't get it anywhere else! I have to go back!"_

And then, a familiar voice: "Excuse me. Excuse me!"

Charles' mother suddenly appeared out of the crowd. She looked worried, flustered, a bag over one shoulder, but then she saw them and relief flooded her face. "Charles? Charles! Oh, thank god." She rushed towards them and gave her son a quick hug. "I went back to the house and you were gone!"

"Yeah, they put us on the bus," Charles explained.

"Oh, well I'm just glad you're here, we've been worried sick." She smiled, saw Joe standing behind him. "Hey sweetie."

"Hey." He turned to Charles. "I'm gonna find my dad."

Charles frowned. "You gonna tell him about that huge—"

"Yes!" Joe cut him off quickly and started moving into the crowd.

Mrs Kaznyk called out after him. "Come back if you can't find him!"

* * *

On a cot in the base's improvised triage unit – fifty beds, transferred from Lillian hospital – Louis Dainard stared into the distance. Tired. Injured. Hungover. In shock. His face was red and bruised, his shirt still spotted with blood, and he was muttering to himself softly, about beasts and his daughter and things you couldn't quite hear.

The nurse made him swallow another couple of painkillers, and moved on to her next patient.

* * *

The evac centre was, basically, the definition of ordered chaos. Walkie-talkies squawked. Orders were barked. Residents complained and argued as PA announcements echoed through the air, about the fire, about the conditions, about the need for _'all small children to wear a wristband at all times_ '. There were a thousand people in the hangar so far with more flooding in every minute. Beds had been set up in long lines, dug up from god knows where.

Joe pushed through the crowd, carrying his backpack in one hand, looking all over for a glimpse of a black police uniform.

He hadn't seen his dad yet.

Come to think of it, he hadn't seen his dad that morning, either, when he'd left go to Charles' place. That wasn't really unusual – Jack sometimes had to leave early for work – but last night, after the argument…

It was a bad feeling. A crappy feeling. And his dad wasn't usually a hard person to find.

Joe spotted something rising out of the throng and made his way towards it. It was a curtained-off area in the corner of the hangar, surrounded by gas tanks and crates of medical equipment. He walked up to the edge and cautiously peered inside.

Some kind of first-aid area, it looked like; hospital beds, IV drips, nurses hurrying around with clipboards in their hands. And almost instantly his eyes settled on one thing.

Thick arms. Unbuttoned shirt. That distinctive shaggy blonde hair.

Joe stood there for a moment, thinking. In normal circumstances he would've stayed the hell away, but… this definitely wasn't normal. It was the first familiar face he'd seen other than Mrs. Kaznyk. And, well, his dad and Mr. Dainard seemed to have this weird relationship where they watched each other very, very carefully…

So, with his heart beating fast, Joe Lamb crept over to Louis Dainard's hospital bed and knelt down beside him. It was quieter, here behind the curtains. _You're not scared_ , he told himself. _You're not._ _Just ask him, that's all you have to do._

"Mr Dainard, it's Joe Lamb," he said quickly. "I – I know you don't like me, and I'm sorry about that, but I'm looking for my dad."

Louis looked up. His eyes flashed with recognition and suddenly he _grabbed_ Joe's shirt, pulled him close. "It took her," Louis said desperately. "It took _Alice_."

Joe twitched. "…What?"

"I saw it. It was big…" he murmured. "And, I don't know, it was something. I've never… I've never seen – it was so… dark, like nothing. No one believes me." Louis shook his head helplessly. He was struggling, almost crying. "No one believes me. They just keep giving me pills, and – it took her… Joe, it took _Alice._ No one believes me."

There was a pause. Joe forced himself to stay close, not to pull away. He stared into those vacant, haunted eyes…

…and suddenly, something clicked. The realisation set his mind on _fire_.

"I believe you," Joe whispered.

And Louis Dainard looked up, his face filled with hope—

* * *

They sat in a circle in the middle of the evac hangar, using Preston's suitcase as a table. It had taken a while to gather everyone together (especially Cary, who was so short he'd been almost impossible to spot), but now they were here. Charles, Cary, Preston, Martin and Joe – a little island of friendship, surrounded by beds and piles of luggage.

Except for the one person who was conspicuously missing.

"It took her," Joe said.

"Took who?" Preston asked.

"Alice. Guys, it's – it's hard to explain. I talked to her dad, and he said he saw something, this big—"

Charles cut him off. "That _thing_ took her!?"

Martin frowned. "What thing?"

"Yeah. What the hell are you talking about, Joe?" Cary retorted.

"There's this – on the film, there was—" Joe closed his eyes, and took a quick breath. _I'll have to start at the beginning_. "Charles… do you want to tell them?"

"Uh – sure, I guess."

Charles looked at everyone.

Everyone looked at Charles.

"So… you remember the night of the train crash?" he said nervously.

"Yeah. We were there, dumbass." Cary rolled his eyes.

"Shut up. And you remember all those weird white cubes and stuff?"

"Oh, yeah," Preston murmured. "Did we ever figure out what they were for?"

"No, but one busted straight through my wall," Joe replied.

"It _what_?"

"You took one _home?_ "

"Yes, I did, but—"

"It could've _exploded_ or something!"

"Martin! I know! Just – listen to Charles." Joe sighed. "The other thing's more important."

They paused for a second as a couple of soldiers walked past, dragging an unconscious guy in an orange leather jacket.

"Anyway," Charles continued. "I took the film from that night to be developed, and I just got it back this morning. Joe and I watched it at my house."

"…And?"

"And most of it was bad. Really blurry, smoke everywhere. Basically useless. Except at the end."

"The camera was lying on its side. Pointed at one of the carriages," Joe explained.

"That's right. And it saw something climb out of the train."

"'Something?'" Cary asked sceptically.

"Yeah. Like a creature. It was kind of like a – an insect, or a crab. Except _really_ big, taller than the train. Lots of legs." Charles tried to make the right shape with his fingers, but only succeeded in making a demented-looking jellyfish. "It was _huge_. And it climbed out of the carriage, and just walked off past the camera."

Now Martin was even more confused. "So you're saying you saw – what. A monster? An alien? A, a military experiment or something?"

"I don't know! But it's real. And it's on my film." Charles dug around in his jacket, and pulled out the film reel in question. Everyone stared at it with nervous eyes, half-expecting it to dissolve into spiders or something.

"That's… I don't know, man." For once, Cary was speechless.

"And guys, think about it," Joe said quietly. "It explains everything. It explains the train. It explains why the military is here. It explains all the weird stuff that's been happening. If there's some kind of – some kind of creature on the loose… it could even explain why Dr. Woodward crashed his car."

There was a pause.

"He's right, you know," Preston said. "It explains a lot."

"Oh, _man_ ," Martin groaned.

"Yeah." Joe nodded. "And it took Alice."

"What do you mean it took her? Did you see it?"

"No, but I just talked to her dad, like twenty minutes ago. He said he saw – he saw this _thing_ , and I know it's the same thing that's on that film. I know it. Guys, we HAVE to go back."

They all looked at him like he was from Uranus.

"Back where?" Charles asked.

"To do _what_?" Preston added.

"We have to go back to town. To find Alice, to find her."

"Are you _shitting_ me?" Cary exclaimed.

"Dude, she's _dead_ ," Martin said fearfully, "Alice is dead, if it took her, she—"

"Don't say that!" Joe interrupted. "She's not dead! But we have to go back to save her! Come on, guys!"

Now the whole group was starting to panic a little. "Joe! What do you actually expect to do, man? The town's closed. We're _not allowed to go back_ ," Charles hissed.

"Look, I have an idea," Joe shot back. "I'm going whether or not you come – which I really hope you do. Come on, guys!"

"Wait a minute – first of all, I wanna LIVE. Okay?" Preston looked around, eyes wide. He held up his left hand which was still covered in band-aids from the train crash. "These fingers are for playing the _piano_! Not for breaking through military blockades!

"It won't be that hard! We just need to find someone who can drive. We won't even need to be careful until we get back to Lillian."

"But no one wants to go back except us!" Charles said. "And in case you've forgotten, Alice isn't exactly here to help out!"

"What about Donny? He's got a car, I saw him driving it on the way here."

Cary shook his head. "That guy from the camera shop? I am _not_ getting in a car with him."

"Whatever, we'll find someone else. Just—"

"And where are we even _going_?" Martin asked. "No one's found that thing so far, what makes you think we can?"

"I have an idea, I said! And I'm pretty sure I saw it once too!" Joe said urgently.

"Pretty sure? That's not exactly reassuring."

"Fine! I'm ninety percent sure, Preston! Ninety percent sure!"

"There's also the fire to worry about. The whole town might just be ash by now."

"Who cares about the fire? The air force would've put it out—"

People were starting to look at them curiously, wondering about the raised voices. Joe closed his eyes for a few brief seconds, then continued a little more quietly. "…put it out. Right?"

"I suppose so..."

There was silence for a moment as everyone tried to absorb what Joe was saying. It was, to be honest, a lot to take in.

"You said you had an idea," Charles murmured eventually.

"Yeah. I've been thinking about it," Joe replied. "What do you use to scare away big animals?"

"Loud noises, I guess. Bright light."

"Yeah. And what makes loud noises and light?"

"…guns?" Martin suggested.

"No, it's something that we already have."

Suddenly, Cary's eyes lit up. _"Firecrackers_ ," he whispered.

"Exactly. Firecrackers. We light them up and scare the monster away."

Preston didn't look convinced. "That's assuming it even _does_ get scared. By anything. You said yourself it was huge, what makes you think it's going to behave like any normal animal?"

"Well, it's been hiding from the air force, right? It must know that guns and soldiers are bad, so…" Joe sighed. "We have to go. We have to try. It's _Alice_ , guys. If one of us was taken that thing, would we just drop everything to save them?"

They all looked at the floor. No one had a good response to that.

"So… that's all I've got. That's the plan," he said nervously. "But come on, who's with me?"

Cary immediately leapt to his feet and dumped his backpack on the floor. "I have six tons of explosives in this thing," he declared. "Let's find that thing and blow it to shit!"

* * *

Jen Kaznyk lay in her cot, looking casually beautiful (or beautifully casual) as she flicked through her Columbia Records magazine. The whole evacuation thing had been kind of relaxing actually – no responsibilities, no arguments, no mother nagging in her ear – and it would have almost _perfect_ if her little brother Charles wasn't right now kneeling by her bed, all up in her face and asking stupid questions.

"As if I'm gonna help _you_ ," she said derisively.

"Do this for me and I'll babysit the twins next week, so you can go to Wendy's stupid party."

Jen sat up at that. She closed her magazine and stared at him suspiciously.

"I'm not shitting you," Charles insisted. "You can't ask me any questions though. And you can't tell anyone. I'm serious. NOBODY."

Jen sighed. "Ugh, does it have to be _him_?"

"Yes or no, you ugly freak! I'm about to rescind the offer!"

* * *

On the other side of the hangar, Jen sat down on an empty cot and put on her best seductive-yet-vulnerable look. "This whole evacuation thing's really freaking me out," she said huskily. "Making me rethink my priorities. Saw you over here and thought maybe we could kick back."

On the bed opposite, Donny Olsen stared back at her – utterly gobsmacked. "We… we totally could," he managed, smiling idiotically.

Jen flicked her hair, glanced to the side. "I asked Charles about you," she murmured, "and – he said you're a _great_ guy."

"I totally am."

Jen laughed softly, and Donny's heart soared. So many dreams, coming true before his eyes. Then, suddenly, she gave him an awfully businesslike stare.

"Will you hate me if I start our relationship by asking a favour?"


	14. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've almost hit 60,000 words, which means that a) this is actually approaching novel length, and b) I probably need to be more ruthless in my editing (or actually do proper editing in the first place. It's interesting, going back to read a chapter you wrote a month ago and seeing all the bits you want to change…).

They half-crouched, half-ran through the lot of parked cars, ducking past vans and convertibles and VW Beetles; the afternoon sun shone brightly overhead, making them feel awfully exposed as they snuck through the air force base grounds. Donny led the way followed by a little human rainbow – Joe in his blue jacket, Charles in his yellow coat, Cary in an olive-green shirt, and Martin in an orange hoodie, all with backpacks slung over their shoulders, prepared for the night ahead.

But now there was another person missing.

_"Who's with me?" he'd asked._

_Cary dumped his bag of firecrackers on the ground. Everyone raised their hands, with varying degrees of eagerness. Cary, then Charles, then Martin._

_Everyone except Preston. "Sorry, Joe," he'd said. "I can't. I'm sorry."_

_"Why?"_

_"It's just maths."_

_Cary rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. What the hell does—"_

_"No, seriously. IF you manage to get to town, IF you manage to find the monster, IF Alice is there, IF you manage to scare that thing off and save her… that's a lot of ifs. You're gonna die, guys," he said plaintively. "You shouldn't go."_

_"But – we have to," Joe said lamely._

_"Then good luck, I guess. I hope you come back." Preston smiled. "Otherwise, I won't have anyone to sit next to in Math class."_

Joe wished that Preston was with them, he really did. The group felt incomplete without him. And it would've been good to have someone smart along. Someone who actually knew what they were doing. Someone who didn't just change the entire plan (if you could call it that) as soon as an idea popped into their head, like Joe had done about thirty seconds ago.

Or maybe this was just a job for stupid people.

Brave, but stupid.

Joe glanced up ahead. Donny was leading them down another line of parked cars, around the side of the evac hangar, his long hair glinting in the sunlight. Though he hadn't exactly been _glad_ about his new task, he'd been surprisingly calm about it.

Then he turned around suddenly. "So there are _rules_ to being in my car, okay?" he hissed.

"Where the hell are we going anyway?" Cary hissed back.

 _Um, about that..._ "We're gonna go to the school and open the trailer Woodward has in the parking lot," Joe replied. "I bet that—"

They ducked behind a car as a group of soldiers jogged past.

"…I bet _that's_ where he's keeping his research."

"Research? What research?" Cary asked. "I thought we were going to town."

"Woodward _must've_ known what that thing is, right? We have to get into that trailer, learn everything we can about that thing so we can find it, and _that's_ how we're gonna save Alice…"

Joe made sure to keep his voice down. They watched and waited until the last of the air force men disappeared around the corner, talking animatedly. It had been surprisingly easy to get out of the hangar but it wouldn't be good to get caught now.

"Okay. Come on, let's go!"

They leapt out of cover and ran over to Donny's navy blue Pontiac Catalina, watching for more patrols as they crouched down around the car. "Dorks! No shoes on my upholstery," Donny warned them. He stabbed a finger at Cary's chest. "And NO ONE touches my C.B. You got it?"

Cary nodded timidly. Charles caught Joe's eye as Donny unlocked the door. "You think Woodward's got information about that thing in the dungeon?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

"Why, exactly?"

"Woodward knows – knew – there was something on that train. And he was a scientist before he was a teacher."

"But the _dungeon_? Are you serious?"

"Why else are there six padlocks on the door?" Joe shrugged, and pointed at Donny. "We're GOING to the school," he said firmly. Then he slid into the passenger seat.

Donny paused. "...Since when did this one become so bossy?"

"I dunno," Martin grumbled, climbing into the back with the others.

"Well, whatever." Donny pulled the door closed and slipped the key into the ignition, ran a hand over the Catalina's dash. "Okay, dorks, you'd better strap yourselves in," he announced. "Some speedy driving _may_ be required."

* * *

Exactly fifty-four miles south and eighteen minutes later, Jack Lamb slammed a fist against the door of his cell.

His _cell_. The word made him angry. It was a small, tiled room – white walls, white floor, no windows. Somewhere in the Lillian Airfield, he supposed, but they'd blindfolded him after taking him in last night. Jack hadn't slept at all since, partly because he was so god-damn _irritated_ , and partly because the room didn't have a bed.

He cursed himself for being so stupid. Of _course_ Nelec wasn't going to come straight with him; of _course_ the military was going to steamroll right through anyone that so much as _tried_ to get in their way. He'd tried to get to the bottom of things properly but had only succeeded at making things worse, and now, well… who knew what was going on out there. Lillian could have been on fire, for all he knew.

Basically, Jack was pissed off; more than that, he was bored of _being_ pissed off. So he hit the door again, made it rattle on its hinges. "Hey! I gotta take a leak!" he shouted.

No reply.

"What am I supposed to do – piss in here!?" He pounded on the wood. _BAM BAM BAM! BAM BAM BAM!_

Suddenly, he heard the click of a key in the lock. Jack stepped back (still wearing his dusty deputy's uniform). The door opened; on the other side was a young, very humourless soldier. His uniform said "Wallace" and he looked extraordinarily serious – pursed lips, thin sheen of sweat, blue beret perched upon his head. An M-16 was clutched tightly in his hands with the barrel pointed at the roof. For now.

Jack met Wallace's gaze, and didn't try to hide his irritation. "Thanks for the hospitality," he muttered.

The soldier didn't even twitch. "Step outside. Slowly."

Jack rolled his eyes, but did as the guy asked. He put his hands in the air and stepped out into the hallway.

"Walk."

He started walking.

It was a long, narrow corridor. Top half painted white, bottom half painted green. The weak fluorescents in the ceiling made everything seem old and dilapidated. Jack looked around, tried to figure out where he was, but he must've slowed down too much because Wallace suddenly prodded him in the back with the gun.

"Keep going."

"Yeah, yeah."

They passed an open office. Jack looked through the window and saw a bunch of military vehicles and airmen out on the tarmac. _It's still bad, then. Whatever's happening out there._ But the bathroom was at the end of the hall, and they were rapidly approaching. His mind raced. He glanced behind him at the soldier who was still following closely. "Am I gonna go in alone," he began, "or are you gonna end up coming with—"

He whirled around and _slammed_ Wallace in the neck with his elbow. The soldier grunted in pain and stumbled back, dazed, was just beginning to recover when Jack leapt forward and grabbed the cold metal of the gun. He got a hold of it and they struggled for the briefest of seconds but then Jack pulled back and—

 _Crack!_ Smashed him in the face with the butt of the rifle. Broken nose. Wallace tumbled into the wall, fell limply to the ground. Jack knelt down and felt his pulse, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Unconscious. He was unconscious. Jack looked up, eyes wide.

_What the hell next?_

* * *

A soldier ran through the dark corridors of the airport, black boots slapping on the white-tiled floors. Gear rattled on his belt; quick breaths wheezed from his lungs. He jogged through an empty office, past cleared desks and scattered papers, then pressed up against the slightly-open door at the far end.

Jack paused. The new uniform was itchy and he was _fucking scared,_ but at least he had a rifle in his hands. He tugged at Wallace's beret, made sure it was snug on his head; turned and looked behind him but there was no one. Just gloom and silence.

He peered through the crack in the door. More gloom. More silence. So he pushed through the door, into the room beyond. It was some kind of foyer area, with a reception desk at the front and blinds covering the windows. A couple of coats hung from a rack on the wall. He felt kind of sorry for Wallace actually, the guy had looked barely old enough to shave.

" _Shit!..._ " He jumped as a mannequin loomed at him from the shadows. It was a store dummy dressed up in old paratrooper gear, beneath a painting of some old World War 2 air battle. Jack took a quick breath, forced himself to move on. He kept going forwards, staying low, peeled around a corner, until suddenly there was a door and a window in front of him and through it he saw—

The tarmac. A big refuelling truck was parked maybe twenty metres from the window, next to a small, black propeller plane; a couple of men were working on the truck, unwinding a hose from the fuel tank on the back. More jeeps and trucks and guards were scattered across the asphalt and behind them, the airport runways stretched into the afternoon haze. The sky outside was a dark grey – almost like it was filled with smoke...

Jack ducked into cover as a jeep rolled past. His eyes shifted from the fuel truck, then back to the gun in his hands.

Desperate times, desperate measures. Never mind that he hadn't used an M-16 in about ten years. Jack clenched his teeth, running on fumes and adrenaline and last night's dinner, and there was a metallic _ch-chink_ as he flipped the safety of the rifle—

* * *

The refuelling truck sat peacefully in the middle of the taxiway, minding its own business (as trucks usually do). Two soldiers chatted to each other a short distance away; another soldier was walking from the truck towards them, one ear to his radio.

 _Zing!_ A bullet hit metal.

Then the truck exploded. The airmen ran for cover as – _KA-BOOOM! –_ a solid ball of fire screamed upwards from the back of the truck, billowing and roaring, flames licking at the sky. Bits of metal and shrapnel blew outwards. Embers scorched the tarmac. It looked like a mini mushroom cloud, scorching hot, until suddenly the blaze dissolved into air and all that was left was thick grey smoke and debris clanking to the ground.

General mayhem would've been an apt description. Soldiers ran every which way, some rushing to move nearby vehicles, some still stunned by the explosion, others trying to help or pointing their guns at shadows. The soldier with the radio climbed up off the ground and ran back to the black and twisted truck, flames still flickering from its rear.

Amid the commotion, no one would've noticed a suspiciously calm-looking sergeant get into a nearby jeep. They also wouldn't have noticed him slowly drive away, then suddenly speed up and blast through the exit gate as he turned onto the highway back to town.

* * *

Jack blasted the jeep along the track at fifty miles an hour. He'd been trying to stay off the main roads, and right now he was basically driving through someone's field – there was a wire fence on his left and he'd just passed a grain silo in his rear view mirror. Further to the left, down the hill a ways, was the highway that led to Lillian.

Then Jack saw something that made his blood run cold. He brought the jeep to a stop right there and stepped out onto the grass.

His face twitched. On the highway in the distance, a huge convoy of vehicles was snaking its way northwards. Cars, trucks, vans, jeeps, even some big green army buses. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. They had to be coming from town, but going… where? They were broadcasting something from one of the trucks' P.A. systems and Jack could hear it from here: _"…driving your own vehicle, follow the caravan to the evacuation center. Please stay with the caravan…"_

Jack leapt back into the jeep and sped off down the track, startling a couple of nearby horses.

* * *

The jeep roared down the highway, all alone on the open road. Jack had overtaken the convoy and was racing ahead as soon as he'd figured out where they were going. _Greenville Air Base. Of course that's where they'd put everybody._ But it was getting dark; almost twilight. Trees blurred past on either side and behind him, thick smoke clouds blocked out the sky, together with a sinister orange glow. Jack flicked on the headlights, just as, coming the other way…

…he passed a big blue Pontiac Catalina, heading back _into_ town.

And he would've been rather surprised if he'd seen who was inside. Donny was driving, one hand on the wheel while Joe rode shotgun, peering anxiously up ahead for any approaching military vehicles. The other three were squeezed into the back seat with their bags – luckily, the jeep that just passed hadn't tried to stop them.

"If the air force has already searched Woodward's house, wouldn't they have searched stuff in the schoolroom too?" Martin asked.

"Yeah man, I was just thinking about that too," Charles replied.

"Donny, dude, this car is _gnarly_ ," Cary said admiringly. He tapped Donny on the shoulder, who smiled.

"No kidding."

Then, as usual, everyone started talking over everyone else. "Maybe his room, but not the dungeon," Joe said.

"Where's the dungeon?" Martin asked.

"In the parking lot in front of the school."

Cary leaned forwards and touched the seat. "I mean, dude, it's got some real leather!"

"Woodward keeps all _kinds_ of stuff in the dungeon," Charles muttered. "But what makes you think that his research is there?"

"Cary, keep your fingers off of it!" Martin exclaimed.

" _You_ keep your fingers off it!"

"Because there has to be a reason that he locks it."

"Cary, you're not—"

"SHUT – UP!" Donny shouted exasperatedly. He glared over his shoulder and they quickly fell silent. For a moment, the only sound was the grumble of the engine.

"So what kind of music does she like? Your sister," Donny asked, looking at Charles in the mirror.

"I don't care… disco, I guess."

"I can get back into disco," Donny murmured. He nodded to himself as Charles stared out the window, somewhat unenthusiastically.

Up ahead, they were coming up to an intersection. "We shouldn't take River Road, they put a roadblock up," Joe said.

"Dork, I saw it," Donny replied. "Observe." He yanked the wheel right and they swung onto a thin dirt road, just visible in the twilight – some unmarked track that led around the back of town. Then he switched on the lights and pumped the accelerator, and the car rumbled away into the night.

* * *

It was a town covered in darkness, a coat of shadows that somehow made it seem… grimmer, lonelier than usual; a lack of light and warmth, except for the occasional empty shop and clouds that were gilded pink on the horizon. Lillian was empty. Dark houses, deserted streets, cars abandoned on the sidewalk. It seemed like the air force platoons were all clustered around the town centre, because the roads had all been silent as they headed towards the school. No patrols. No roadblocks. They drove down past the 7-Eleven – one of the few buildings that still had lights on – and pulled into the Lillian Middle School parking lot, just as the last remnants of daytime faded from the sky.

The engine stopped.

"So what, I just wait here like a douche?" Donny asked.

Joe nodded. "Yes. Thank you _so_ much for doing this. Do you have a tire iron?"

Donny sighed.

But yes, he did have a tire iron.

* * *

They piled out of the car, grabbing their bags as Joe took the tire iron from the boot. Doors slammed shut. Donny leant back and switched off the headlights and suddenly the world was dark again.

The school looked... oddly familiar, almost like nothing had changed since the start of the holidays (barely a week ago, though that seemed hard to believe). A few yellow school buses still remained by the front entrance. The bins were still filled with paper and old books. The noticeboard still said 'HAVE A GREAT SUMMER!' in big, blocky letters.

But so much _had_ changed.

"Come on, it's over here."

Joe led the way as they jogged off through the parking lot – Woodward's trailer was kept in an semi-hidden spot around the side of the school. They ran to the chain-link fence that bordered the staff parking area and threw their bags over the top, climbed up the wire quickly and dropped down on the other side. Then they kept running, into an alleyway, with the big beige gymnasium on one side and the grassy sports field on the other. A couple of the outside lights were still glowing, illuminating the concrete pathways and a big brown flag for the _Lillian Middle School Lions_. Then it was up a few steps, past a low fence, and there – around the back of the gym – there was the trailer. Parked next to a couple of electrical switchboards, a few bits of rubbish stuck under the wheels.

Woodward's trailer (a.k.a. the dungeon) was basically a big metal box, maybe three metres long, painted white originally but with rust creeping up the sides. It had a set of doors in the back, locked by some kind of sliding latch; they immediately jogged up to it and gathered around as Joe stuck the tire iron between the bolts. He tugged on it a few times, then another time, hard – "Grrgh!" – but it didn't budge.

"Joe, let me try. Joe, let me TRY!" Charles said excitedly. He grabbed the tire iron and tried to pry it open, grunting and straining–

"God, I hope my Electronic Football's in there," Cary murmured.

–but nothing. The metal didn't even rattle. "Joe, this is impossible man, there's no way we can do this," he said, suddenly starting to panic. "Seriously, we shouldn't even _be_ here!" Joe ignored him and kept peering at the latch. Martin snatched the tire iron off of Charles and tried to open the trailer himself. He knocked Cary out of the way – "What the hell are you doing, Martin!? You just don't push people, okay?" – and started wiggling it back and forth.

"These things are built like a bank vault, like a safe!" Charles was saying, getting more and more agitated. "We're not going to be able to into this thing. Professional _robbers_ can't even get into these things! They're so strong!"

Martin twisted the tire iron until it was flat against the door. He pushed down, heard something give; bit his lip, moved the bar a little, pushed downwards again and—

 _Clink!_ The bolt fell to the ground, sheared in two.

"Shit!" Cary said admiringly.

The others stared at the broken latch for a second, then at Martin, who was breathing heavily with a rather pained expression on his face.

"I loosened it for you," Charles said defensively.

"No you _didn't._ "

An owl hooted in the distance. Joe dug through his bag for his flashlight, switched it on. Martin wiped his glasses with his shirt. Charles and Cary undid the latch in silence; they paused for a moment to exchange a glance, then they grasped the handles and pulled the doors open, which swung slowly outwards on old, creaking hinges. And inside the trailer, there was…

Stuff. _Lots_ of stuff. Four boys peered into Woodward's dungeon, awed expressions on their faces.

"Guys…" Joe breathed.

"Look at all this _junk_ ," Martin groaned.

The trailer was filled with all sorts of things – boxes, papers, books, pens, dusty electronics, all piled up to chest height. There were even a few old chairs and tables half-buried under the clutter (but no Electronic Football, much to Cary's dismay). Joe swept his flashlight over the stacks, looking for anything vaguely interesting. _Research, research, where's the research…_ Some of the boxes looked kind of important; they had labels on them, dates, places, like _'Foxtrot-Zebra-Echo, b. A-51'_.

"He's got movies in here," Charles muttered. He took a big film reel from atop one of the piles, turned it over in his hands. It looked… old.

"Okay, guys. Just grab as much as you can," Joe said firmly. "Paper, boxes, movies, whatever. And then we're going to break into the school."

"What?!" Charles asked.

"We're gonna break into the school."

"No! We are _not_! No! Joe, you can't just—"

* * *

"I can't believe we're breaking into the school!" Charles hissed.

They skidded around the corner and into the hallway, shoes squeaking on the vinyl.

" _Nobody_ does that! _Idiots_ do that!"

Torches flashed in the gloom. They ran past dozens of empty lockers, holding boxes, books, as much as they could carry. Joe led the way to Dr Woodward's classroom (door locked, of course) and, after the briefest hesitation – _clink!_ – he smashed in the window with Donny's tire iron. Charles swore under his breath. Glass tinkled to the floor. Joe scraped off all the sharp edges and reached through the gap, turned the handle. The door swung open before them.

Dr Woodward was clearly a chemistry teacher, from the big periodic table on the wall and the gas taps and sinks along the benches. They rushed in and Cary flicked on a couple of lights while the others reached for some chairs (which had been stacked up on the tables for the holidays). The boxes were dumped on a couple of benches in the middle and they started digging through.

Alice was counting on them.

* * *

"Dr Woodward was dishonourably discharged from Nellis Air Base, in…" Joe had to squint to read the tiny writing. "…in 1963, because of 'subversive conduct,' whatever that is."

They were just looking for anything that would _help_ ; sitting around a table, surrounded by hundreds of documents and folders and photographs and film canisters and cassette tapes. Charles was threading one of the film reels into the classroom's projector. Cary had somehow found his confiscated Electronic Football game and was currently glued to the screen, which now and then emitted a happy electronic jingle.

"Hey, look, it's Old Man Woodward." Martin held up a photograph.

Charles took it, looked at it with his flashlight. "…Back when he was like, Middle-Aged Man Woodward."

"Yeah. He's been tracking this thing since 1958…"

Joe glanced up at the projector as the first movie started playing. It was grainy, black and white, set inside some sort of big shed or hangar; the camera was pointed at several enormous black… _things_ arranged on the concrete. They looked like armour plating, like something that you'd find on a battleship, or a tank – sharp, triangular surfaces bending at strange angles, mostly smooth, sometimes rough. The pieces loomed twenty metres high, arcing overhead, held upright by long cables and scaffolding.

A couple of scientists stood in the foreground, looking up at the black monoliths in silence. The one closest to the camera was intact but the one furthest away was buckled and torn.

"What is this?…" Joe mumbled to himself.

Charles grabbed the film canister. "It says, 'April 8th, 1963 incident'. I dunno."

The camera cut to a different scene. A group of maybe a dozen men were sitting on chairs, arranged around the first black piece. Some wore suits – like Air Force dress uniforms – but most were wearing white lab coats, busily scribbling notes onto clipboards. Scientific instruments were scattered on a nearby table.

 _Cha-ching!_ Cary's electronic football beeped loudly. Joe glared at him. "Cary!"

"...What."

"We have to _find_ this thing! Come on!"

"Okay, sorry." Cary put the game down and picked up the cassette in front of him, put it in the tape deck. Dr Woodward's disembodied voice crackling through the room.

_"…I told them that this creature is more sophisticated than any of us. That his 'species' is predominantly subterranean, and that he is being treated without compassion or respect."_

"Subterranean," Joe breathed.

The others kept reading. Charles handed Martin a sheaf of papers labelled _'UFO CRASH: MAJOR NELEC IN CHARGE OF OPERATIONS. TWO ALIEN BODIES, ONE LIVING. RESTRAINTS USED. EXPERIMENTS CONDUCTED.'_

 _"I explained that all he wants is to rebuild his ship. A_ _craft made up of those cubes, a complex shape-shifting alloy –_ remarkable _material that we'll never fully understand."_

Everyone looked up at the mention of the cubes. One the screen, the same group of scientists was sitting before the black shard; one leaned forwards, slowly turning a knob on a piece of equipment. And, as the scientists watched – the whole bus-sized piece just twitched, and then _dissolved_. Dissolved into millions of the little white cubes, which fell to the floor in a shining waterfall and scattered across the concrete.

"Woah…"

"Shit!"

" _He has been desperate to reconstitute his ship since it crashed here, in '58. But instead of giving him the help he needs, we've held him as a prisoner."_

The camera panned from the astonished scientists over to the avalanche of cubes. They walked to the pile and began picking them up, turning them over, scanning them with Geiger counters. Dr Woodward was one of them – looking a lot younger, but it was definitely him, talking with one of his colleagues.

"Guys, it's Dr Woodward!" Cary exclaimed.

They all stared at the flickering movie, the other research temporarily forgotten. Now one of the cubes was sitting in a petri dish as Woodward sprayed chemicals onto it.

Then a card flashed up on the screen:

**APRIL 8**

**1963**

A new scene. There was Dr Woodward, pushing a trolley through a room filled with gauges, desks, ancient computers. He looked… grim. Uneasy. Like a man on his way to be hanged.

 _"He's been restrained and experimented upon, biopsied, and tortured by Nelec. Through pain and lack of compassion, we have taught him to_ hate us all _. We have turned him into an enemy."_ His voice on the tape was full of foreboding.

Cut to a different room. It had a black-and-white tiled floor and a high ceiling; in the far wall were two sets of thick, reinforced bars, one a few metres above the other. Beyond them was just black, inky darkness.

Dr Woodward was there. On his trolley was a big slab of meat – it looked like a cow's leg and glistened with wetness. Other scientists stood around the room, fiddling with big banks of equipment, or talking with each other.

Woodward skewered a smaller bit of meat on a pole and walked up to the bars. Offered it to the darkness within. He was nervous; edging forwards, trying to peer into the shadows. But nothing happened. The meat slid off the pole and flopped to the floor inside. The doctor turned around to grab the other piece of meat, when suddenly—

A long, muscular arm _shot_ out of the blackness and wrapped around Woodward's chest.

Martin screamed. "Aaah!"

"Oh my GOD!" Cary shouted.

The arm – or was it a tentacle? – whipped him up into the air, just a blur, a millisecond of motion. He was held there, dangling, helpless. Like a piece of meat.

" _Jeez…_ what the hell?!" Charles murmured.

"What _is_ that thing? Guys, shit!"

Martin put his face in his hands. "I can't watch this," he said miserably, "I can't—"

"Martin, you're gonna throw up, man."

Woodward's voice still crackled in the background. _" _I told them I knew these things because he made contact with me, that he makes a psychic connection – by touch._ The moment I made contact, I understood him – and he me. What I know is that if we don't change this and begin _helping _him… we will all pay the price."_

Joe forced himself to keep looking at the projector. The arm rippled back and forth through the air, out of focus – then suddenly it coiled back into the cage and Woodward was released, fell heavily to the ground. The scientists ran over to their fallen colleague who was writhing in pain on the floor.

Joe stood up, walked towards the screen. The movie, the voice on the tape... it all made _sense_ now. The air force taking over the town. Dr Woodward crashing into that train. "He wasn't trying to kill it," Joe realised.

Charles had figured it out too. "He was trying to help it escape…"

_Clang!_

There was muffled crash in the distance. "Oh my god!" Cary hissed.

"Did you guys hear that?" Martin asked. They all whirled around, looking for the source of the noise. It sounded like it had come from somewhere nearby.

 _"Nelec won't listen. He'll have me discharged. But I won't give up. I will do_ everything _in my power… to set him free."_ On the film Woodward was being carried away, looking around the room dazedly. " _Help him rebuild that ship. I won't—"_

Charles switched off the projector.

The room went dark again – dark, and silent. The waited. Listened. Joe turned to glance at the door, at the window he'd broken earlier. Martin swallowed, heart beating fast. It was quiet. Maybe it had just been the wind, something falling over...

Then BANG! The door burst open and suddenly _armed-fucking-commandos_ started pouring into the classroom. The world instantly erupted into a cloud of panic and screaming. Shadows, green uniforms, flashes of light _—_

"FREEZE! NOBODY MOVE!"

"Holy shit!"

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot me!"

"DO NOT MOVE!"

"I didn't—"

Martin put his hands in the air. Charles put his hands on a desk. Cary backed away as Joe found himself frozen in place, disbelieving, torches glaring in his eyes. The commandos rushed forwards, surrounding them, holding guns to their shoulders and looked about an inch away from using them. "Stop! _STOP!_ "

"Oh my god!"

" _SHIT!"_

"Please, we just—"

"EVERYBODY DOWN!"

"Don't kills us! Please don't kill us! _Please don't k_ —"

* * *

A couple of big air force trucks rolled through the middle school parking lot, engines rumbling in the night. They were quite loud, and _quite_ large. If anyone had, hypothetically, been waiting in the carpark right at that moment - they probably would've noticed.

But Donny Olsen couldn't have cared less. This was because he was still sitting inside his Pontiac Catalina, puffing happily on a newly-rolled joint.

Donny chuckled to himself. He leaned back, eyes closed. The world was just a pleasant, druggy haze, filled with thoughts of Jen Kaznyk and the mint tunes playing on the radio.

_"Un-der-cover angel, answer to my prayer_

_You made me know that there's a love for me_

_Out there, somewhere…"_

* * *

"We've got positive I.D. here. It's just a bunch of kids."

The lights had been switched on in the building outside, harsh and bright compared to the dim classroom. Joe and his friends blinked as they were pushed out into the hallway - quiet, scared, bewildered. Wondering about how the hell this had happened, about Woodward, about how the military had found them. For the moment it didn't look like they were going to be shot, but there were still an awful lot of guns pointed at their backs. Air force men were standing guard on either side and, coming down the corridor towards them—

"Oh, _shit_ ," Charles whispered.

—was a grim-looking air force colonel, the one they'd seen running things around town. He had a deep-lined face and dark, piercing eyes; the badge on his uniform said _'NELEC'_ , Colonel Nelec, and he walked with a sort of casual menace. He was flanked by a tall, dark-skinned Sergeant – _'OVERMEYER'_ – and three other air force troopers with rifles on their backs.

They came to a stop before the ragtag group. Nelec did _not_ look amused.

"Search 'em," he ordered.

The soldiers stepped forwards. They started patting down their pockets, then grabbed their backpacks roughly and started looking through. No one even _thought_ about running; four boys against a squad of soldiers seemed like pretty poor odds.

Nelec held out a hand. "Let me see that."

Cary shrugged off his bag and handed it over, a defiant look in his eyes. The Colonel unzipped it and pulled out a handful of dirty yellow cylinders.

"I rolled those M-80s myself," Cary said grimly.

Nelec looked up, in either irritation or surprise.

"That's right."

"Jesus, Cary, _shut up_ ," Martin hissed.

Nelec dropped the bag. Then he looked over at Joe. Narrowed his eyes. "…You're the Deputy's boy," he said slowly.

Joe stared back, eyes wide.

And then Joe felt a hand on his chest. He glanced down, saw Overmeyer's fingers dip into his front jacket pocket. They closed around something heavy and silver and Joe felt his heart stop.

The soldier pulled out his mother's locket and held it up to the light, dangling from one finger.

"No…" he whispered.

Overmeyer looked at him emotionlessly and slipped the necklace into his uniform.

"Move out," the colonel muttered.

The other soldiers finished up their checks. The boys exchanged worried glances as the air force men formed up around them, leading them onwards down the hall in terrifying, stomach-churning silence. Joe stared dully at Overmeyer's back, breathing in, and out, in, and out, wanting to run, or cry, or snatch it back. To do something.

But of course, he didn't.

* * *

A bus was waiting for them outside in the parking lot. It was dotted with orange indicators and red-and-white headlamps, and the exterior was old, worn, painted pale blue with _US AIR FORCE_ stencilled on the side. The windows all had thin metal bars running across them... as if this wasn't the first time this bus had carried prisoners.

The boys were ushered on board, followed by their air force guards. The driver shut the doors with a _hiss - t_ hen the engine grumbled and the bus rolled forwards, out of the school and into the darkening night.

This time, Donny _did_ notice. He watched the bus drive off in his rear-view mirror, still smoking the joint, utterly confused. "Oh shit," he said. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit."

Donny sank down into his seat, stoned mind racing. A couple of neurons finally clicked together and – staying hidden from the remaining military – he scrambled for his CB radio, turned it to channel nine, grabbed the mike. "Breaker, breaker," he said frantically, "requesting police backup, over?! Breaker, breaker one-nine, is this the police channel?"


	15. The Bus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section is one of my favourites, a great piece of suspenseful filmmaking, so it was fun to try and capture it on paper. It works really well as an action set-piece whilst providing a bit of redemption for Nelec, and feels utterly believable (if I was in a bus being attacked by an alien monster, I'd probably scream a hell of a lot too). It's an interesting challenge to describe such a confusing situation with the same level of intensity for 4000-odd words.
> 
> In other news, this chapter was written over five nights between 11PM-1AM because apparently that's the only chunk of spare time I have nowadays (thanks, university). THAT IS HOW DEDICATED I AM TO YOU :-p.

To Jack Lamb's tired and watchful eyes, it looked completely crazy _. Crazy._ The whole _town_ was here, crammed into the old, rusting airplane hangars of the Greenville Air Base – people streaming back and forth, leaning against concrete pillars, crowded together like sardines in a can. (Or rats in a trap, more like.) Jack pushed through in his ill-fitting air force uniform doing his best to look as if he knew what he was doing, but everyone had the same nervous energy, the same jumpy look in their eyes.

He couldn't blame them. He could barely believe what was happening himself. To the left he passed a low, gloomy room straight out of a World War 2 air-raid shelter, lights flickering dimly. To the right…

"Staff Sergeant." A soldier nodded to him as he strode past.

"Hi. How're…"

The soldier ignored him and disappeared into the crowd.

"…you doing?" Jack said uncertainly. He shook his head and started walking again, told himself to calm down and say something less god-awfully stupid next time.

To the right was the main hangar – a big open space that was now filled with camp beds and luggage and yet more people, from teenagers sitting around in circles to babbling worried parents to senior citizens lying on their blankets out cold. It was divided up into sections by sheets of canvas; Jack looked around for anyone that he knew, anyone that could help, someone he could talk to about everything that had happened—

There! Over by the wall. A distinctive black police uniform. Jack edged past a couple of beds, past a guy in a grey suit.

"Hey Mr. Lamb!" a voice said brightly.

Jack whirled around, saw one of Mrs. Piper's kids smiling at him from the floor. "Shhhhh!" He patted the kid's head and continued moving, hoped no one had noticed. "Rosko!"

Deputy Rosko was standing a few metres away. He turned around, and his face flashed through recognition and happiness and annoyance all in quick succession. "Hey! Where the hell have you been?" he hissed. "And what are you _wearing_?"

"Come here!" Jack kept walking and Rosko had to run a little to catch up. He led them over to an emptier section of the hangar, shielded from the rest by a couple of thick sheets. A single globe hung overhead and they faced each other beneath it. "The Air Force set that fire," he said quickly, "they want the town empty for some reason. This whole operation, this whole military operation, the evacuation, everything, it's all bad. We need to find why the—"

Rosko put a hand on his shoulder. "Did you hear about Joe?" he asked.

Jack paused mid-rant.

"Look," Rosko whispered, "Dispatch just got a call on citizens' band, Joe and some of his friends – they were grabbed by military personnel at the middle school."

Jack's gaze flickered. He looked into Rosko's kind, concerned eyes, at the hangar all around, trying to understand. Strange, how one word could make you forget about everything else.

* * *

Preston was nose-deep in the latest issue of Isaac Asimov's Adventure Magazine when someone slapped it roughly from his hands. He glanced up, about to give his new visitor a stern piece of mind – when suddenly he found himself staring right into the tense, angry eyes of Deputy Jack Lamb (in an air force uniform, no less). Preston flinched and shrank back into the bed with an expression of utmost fear on his face.

Jack glared at him. Then he leant down until their noses were almost touching. "Preston," he said, with a voice like death itself. "You tell me everything, and I won't throw you in _jail_."

Preston shivered. "…Yessir," he managed eventually. "But I think you should look at this first." He felt around under the bed for a small plastic reel and held it up between them. A film reel.

Jack glanced at it.

Preston swallowed.

* * *

The army bus whizzed along the highway towards Greenville, surrounded on every side by darkness. It was the only vehicle on the moonlit road; its grumbling engine the only sound. Red taillights glowed in the night, trailing through the cold air.

Inside, it was tense. Cracked leather seats and feeble yellow light. The driver stared straight ahead, adjusting the wheel as the road came twisting out of the darkness. In the passenger's seat another soldier announced into a radio: "Chief Master Sergeant, Dustoff-Oh-Three is twenty minutes out."

" _Roger that_ ," was the faint reply. _"Perimeter secure. Standing by on lookout, prepare to engage."_

The soldier put the radio down and stood up. Turned and made his way down the aisle. Most of the seats were empty, except for two – Overmeyer sat near the front, reading through a manila folder, and behind him on the other side was Nelec, gazing into the distance, a sort of grim smirk on his face. The soldier sat down behind Nelec and took out his rifle, made sure it was loaded with a few soft clicks.

" _Teams Kilo-Lima-Mike-November in position."_

_"Teams Oscar-Foxtrot-Quebec-Romeo in position. Cocked and locked, ready to go."_

At the back of the bus, there was a sealed compartment. Floor-to-ceiling panes of dirty safety glass formed a wall across its width, taking in the last three windows, with a locked door in the middle of the aisle (almost like a transparent cage). Seats were arranged around the edges of the compartment, and sitting in these seats were Charles, Cary, Martin and Joe – Charles and Cary on one side, Martin and Joe on the other, all looking towards the front with scared, haunted eyes. Martin was barely keeping it together, twitching and turning his head. Cary put his head in his hands. Charles looked like he was going to be sick. And Joe was feeling it too – how it had all gone so wrong so fast. How he'd led his friends into this godawful situation. How Dr. Woodward had met the alien all those years ago, and changed everything… and how every moment the bus drove took them further away from Alice.

Charles took a couple of quick breaths. Leaned forwards. "What – what's gonna happen to us?" he asked nervously.

"I think we're gonna die," Cary replied, looking up.

Martin shook his head. "Shut up man. They, they wouldn't do that." His voice cracked.

"I'm not kidding. I think they're gonna kill us."

The bus rumbled onwards, bouncing a little as it passed some bumps in the road.

"Guys…" Joe swallowed. "Guys, I forced you to come with me. I – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

"Don't say that. They're _not_ gonna kill us," Charles said. Tears twinkled in his eyes. "You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because we're just—"

_CRASH!_

A shape from the darkness _slammed_ into the bus behind Joe's head, shattering the windows, sending glass exploding inwards. The entire bus rocked, rolling, throwing them forwards, Joe flailing against his seatbelt, Charles yelling as he leaned back, lights flickering as Nelec and the other soldiers tumbled from their seats in a cloud of uniforms and paper. There was an enormous _SCREECH!_ as the bus' tires scrabbled for purchase – then another screech, more animal, the hint of a shape galloping away in the darkness, but no one had time to see it as the bus was somehow riding up on two wheels at fifty miles an hour like some insane circus trick.

"HOLD ON!" The driver struggled with the wheel and the bus slewed to the right, coming dangerously close to the edge of the road. "Hold on!" The lights kept blinking, black-white black-white. Back in the compartment Charles and Cary were screaming; Joe looked to the front as the world tilted wildly. The bus was still driving at a 45 degree angle. A tire blew somewhere and metal shrieked, then physics took control again and the bus _crashed_ back down to earth. The soldiers were thrown across and smacked into the windows as another tire exploded with the impact. Joe and Martin were whipped painfully back into their seats. The bus kept rolling, two of its tires gone, wheels sparking on the highway.

"Was that that thing from the train?" Charles shouted.

"Was that _it_? Oh my god!"

"I can't see anything? Do you see anything?!" Martin shouted back.

"Not yet—"

"Sir, I gotta pull over!" The driver was barely clinging to his seat, eyes wide as the bus skidded across the road. He locked the brakes and the bus slowed down _fast_ – everyone jolted forwards as it came to a sudden, screeching stop, hissing and steaming as the engine ticked over.

It was a nondescript section of highway. Somewhere between Lillian and Greenville, surrounded by trees and deep shadows. From overhead, the bus was just a little bar of light, almost lost amongst the dark, forested hillsides – an island in the moonlight.

"Why are we stopping?" Charles squeaked. "Why are we stopped?"

Joe and Martin looked around in panic as Cary gulped in air. "Holy shit. Oh my god, guys—"

At the front it was still mayhem; one soldier was speaking urgently into a radio as the Nelec and Overmeyer loaded rifles from a box under the seat. "Contact with precious cargo, three clicks from city centre. Currently heading towards Fortress, send support immediately, we do _not_ have visual—"

"Driver!" Overmeyer barked. "Can you see anything up there?"

"No sir! Nothing!" He stared into the darkness, hands shaking. The engine kept stalling whenever he tried to restart it.

Back in the compartment, Charles was peering forward, trying to figure out what was going on. Nelec was putting something together; some kind of weapon. Jet black with a long barrel. "…What's that gun?"

Cary actually answered. "Sako Bolt Action thirty-aught-six with a Leatherwood Art Scope and seven-point-six-two millimetre am—"

"Okay, we get it!"

Now Nelec was loading the rifle as the lights still flickered, pale yellow, blinking on and off. The other soldiers strained to see out of the bus, moving to different windows.

"Those aren't bullets," Cary said. "He's loading tracking darts."

Charles shivered and started fiddling with his seatbelt. Joe frowned.

"Charles, what're you doing?"

Up the front, Colonel Nelec stood up. Stepped forward. He handed the rifle to Overmeyer and said: "Here. Tag it."

Overmeyer was stunned for a second. He turned to Nelec, the slightest bit of fear visible in his face, but the Colonel just stared straight ahead. Grim and determined, as always.

"…Yes sir," Overmeyer replied. He took the rifle. Looked down at it, then back up into the night. The highway was just a pale yellow strip – maybe twenty metres of it lit by the bus' fading headlights, the rest of it dark and impenetrable.

"Open the door," Nelec ordered.

The driver seemed reluctant as hell to do _that_. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm the order; then, after a tense moment, he reached for the door controls. Took the lever with a sweaty hand. Pushed it sideways.

With a soft _hiss_ , the door slid open.

Sounds immediately flooded through the open gap: crickets chirping, insects buzzing. A frog somewhere nearby. Maybe an owl in the distance. Everyone was quiet – the boys, the soldiers, all frozen. Watching. Listening. Trying to see through the bushes and shadows.

Overmeyer took a breath, then started walking cautiously – hands on the gun, head tilted at a slight angle as if it would help him see (it didn't). His boots scraped on the thin carpet. Both Nelec and the other guard were standing in their seats, leaning forwards in anticipation. The boys watched him from the back, Martin whimpering, Cary shivering, Joe barely able to breathe.

"I don't feel good about this," Charles said quietly.

Overmeyer raised the rifle to his shoulder. The lights went off for a few long seconds, then blinked back on again. He kept shuffling, looking through the front windows; he was about five feet from the door when he paused. Turned to Nelec. "Sir, is there a particular area that you'd want me to shoot—"

 _KRRRASSHH!_ An arm suddenly _BURST_ in through the open door, thick as a tree trunk, grabbed Overmeyer around his chest.

"AAAH!"

The boys all jumped in shock and freaking _terror_. There was a vibrating, high-pitched roar, so loud it drowned out everything else, the driver's howls, Charles shriek, Joe's horrified shout. Overmeyer was lifted into the air and slammed head-first into the window. He cried out in pain; Nelec recoiled and fell back. The arm was huge, grey and rippling and it whipped Overmeyer in the other direction, slamming him into the driver who crumpled under the impact, then back to the other side, cracking the windshield, jolting the whole bus, back into the driver with bonecrunching force and finally the gun dropped from his hands and—

BANG! A searing flash and the rifle fired and a tranq dart speared into the bulletproof glass _right in front_ of Charles' head, spiderwebbing the surface. Charles flinched and screamed again. "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!"

There was another alien roar, low, haunting. Overmeyer was almost dragged out through the door but he managed to grab onto a seat, blood in his mouth, suspended in the air by the creature's shadowy grip. "Help!" he cried. "Heeeeelllp!" He reached out to the driver with one outstretched arm who reached back uncertainly and their fingers touched for the briefest of moments – but too late.

Overmeyer was yanked out of the bus, still screaming, swallowed by the darkness. _"Aaauuuggghhh!..."_

"AAH!" Joe shouted involuntarily, wide-eyed, in utter shock. Behind him Martin vomited, chunks of orange streaming from his mouth.

"Oh my god MARTIN!" Cary yelled. Puke spilled across the floor. In the main section of the bus Nelec roared at the driver: "GET US OUT OF HERE _NOW!_ " He whipped around, turned to the other remaining soldier. "What other firepower to we have?"

Charles was panicking more and more, scrambling to unlatch his seatbelt. Joe saw him, slapped him on the shoulder. "Charles! Maybe we should wait!"

"THERE'S A _MONSTER_ OUT THERE, JOE!"

"What the hell is it?!"They looked over their shoulders, up, down, trying to spot the thing that had attacked them but seeing nothing but shadows. The driver turned the key again and again, heard the engine stall uselessly—

 _BAM!_ The bus was pushed sideways by something on the other side, grinding across the road. Metal screeched. Joe and the others were jolted in their seats. They whirled around, freaking out as the bus was pushed, once, twice by an unseen force, sliding it towards the forest.

"AAH!"

"What the hell is that?!" Cary shouted.

Then the engine came to life with a cough. The driver called out "I got it sir!", revved it up and slipped it into gear, but then – BAM! – there was another push even harder than the last and then bus was suddenly tilting, further and further, pivoting on its broken wheels. Nelec scrambled for balance as the world shifted beneath their feet, fifteen tons of metal rising sickeningly in the air, tipping up to forty-five degrees and staying there for an awful moment…

Then falling. Fast. The bus _slammed_ sideways into the ground with an almighty crunch of metal, its right-side wall now a floor. Windows shattered, steel crumpled. The soldiers were all thrown to the ground. Dust exploded from the impact. Charles slipped and fell forwards and collapsed right on top of Joe, who suddenly found himself lying on his back, dazed, and the weight knocked the air from his lungs.

Outside: a soft and sinister growl. The bus settled on the tarmac, back wheels still spinning slowly. Inside: Charles grunted and pushed himself to his feet and Joe and Martin did the same, fumbling as the lights flashed hauntingly, bruised and battered but still alive.

"Guys, I need some help!" Cary yelled. He was pinned against the ceiling, suspended by the seatbelt across his stomach. "Ow, the seatbelt is killing me! Guys!"

"Unhook it!" Martin reached up with Joe and they undid the belt. They grabbed his shoulders and Cary dropped to the ground.

"Here, we got it!

"You guys okay?" The world was tilted disorientingly sideways. Joe quickly leapt across the seats to the fire escape hatch at the back, grabbed the red locking lever and pulled it hard. "Come on!"

In the main section, the floor was just a sea of broken glass. One of the soldiers was lying on his side, blood leaking from a wound in his skull, not moving. Unconscious or dead. Next to him, sprawled on the ground was Nelec…

…who raised his head. Slowly, painfully. Blood dripped from his nose. The creature howled again, a hoarse, trumpeting sound. Then there was a loud _crunch_ as it _climbed_ up onto the exposed side of the bus – an enormous six-limbed spider, denting the metal with its weight as it crawled through the smoke. _Crunch. Crunch._

Nelec got up. He grabbed a radio off the ground, scared but pissed off. "This is Nelec. Use the big guns. Whatever happens to me, do _not_ let it leave—"

 _CRASH!_ An arm _busted_ in through the top side of the bus, whipping through the air, tearing up a seat with four thick fingers _._ Another long roar: _ROOoooOOOoooOOO!_ Barely metres away Joe kept yanking at the hatch lever, face screwed up with effort.

"Joe, open it!" Cary shouted.

"Open the door!"

He pulled on it with his entire weight, adrenaline giving him strength, doing his best to ignore what was happening on the other side of the glass – but it wouldn't budge. "It's _bolted_!" he said frustratedly. Cary grabbed the lever himself as Charles groaned in anguish. "ARGH, I wanna go home so BAD!"

Joe pushed past them to the door to the compartment, turned the handle but it was locked tight as well. He shoved his hands against the glass. At the front of the bus the arm was still thrashing, grabbing at the walls amidst deafening alien roars.

"Open the door!" Martin yelled. "Please sir, just let us out!"

Nelec saw them trapped in the compartment and dropped the radio, ran over. He tried the handle but it wouldn't open for him either; he rattled it back and forth desperately, glanced up, met Joe's gaze for the briefest second.

"Please, open it!" Cary begged.

"Please sir, open the door!"

Nelec turned around. "WHERE ARE THE KEYS?"

"Overmeyer had them!" the driver shouted back. He was lying on his back, leg pinned under his seat. Blood was spattered on the windshield. "Help me! My leg's stuck!"

Nelec turned back to them. Stared at the four kids stuck in the compartment. The Deputy's boy pressed his face against the glass, voice muffled. "Please, open the door!"

Colonel Nelec paused. For once, they were trying to do the same thing. A shame that it had to happen in these circumstances.

The lights flickered. Dark-light, dark-light.

Nelec saw his own fear reflected in the boy's face…

… and he understood, in that moment, that this was his fate.

So many things left to say.

From the other side of the glass, Joe looked into Colonel Nelec's deep brown eyes. In that silent gaze, that craggy face, there seemed to be some echo of—

WHAM!

Nelec whirled around. Glass shattered again. The creature had busted the door off its hinges, one of its legs punching through the gap. Its five-toed foot hung over the driver's body, the claw of an ancient god, and as the driver saw it he shrieked and he raised his hands, tried to shrink away—

"NNOOOOOOO!"

The leg _stomped_ down. The driver was there and then he wasn't as skin met metal with the force of a hydraulic ram. A thin sheen of gore burst out from under the creature's foot.

"AHHH!" The boys screamed in horror. Joe turned and collapsed against the door, eyes scrunched shut. Charles slammed his hand into the wall. "Another one _DEAD!"_

 _KREEEEeeeeEE!_ The creature bellowed triumphantly and moved further along the roof. _Crunch. Crunch._ Bits of metal burst like ice-chips. Joe shivered, trying to get that image of death out of his head, failing miserably and feeling his mind get filled with panic and darkness and splatters of blood. They were never getting out of here, they really were going to die, all of them, unless he could just think of think of think of…

Alice. In the middle of all the darkness, he saw her face. That river of blonde hair. Bright blue eyes. A smile. And he thought of her stuck in the darkness too, and remembered the whole reason they'd come, the whole reason they were here in the first place – b _ecause of me. Because we're going to_ save _her._

Joe opened his eyes. Scanned the compartment. He looked up at the wall that was now the ceiling, and the lights blinked, and suddenly he noticed that directly above them one of the bulletproof windows was cracked. A lot. He pointed. "Guys – there's, there's broken glass."

Cary looked and saw it too. "Guys!"

"Martin!" Joe rushed forwards. "Martin, let me get on your shoulders. Comon!"

"Yeah you can use me, I'm strong—"

" _I'm_ strong!" Charles retorted. But Martin bent down and Joe leapt clumsily onto his back, Cary and Charles steadying him until he had his legs around Martin's neck. "Go, go get up!"

"Here we go."

"Go!" Martin grunted and stood up. Joe kept his balance and reached upwards, managed to grab one of the metal bars that ran across the windows.

"Come on, Joe! You can do it!" Charles shouted.

"Come on Joe!"

He pressed his shoulder against the ceiling and drew back and smacked his elbow into the glass. It made a soft _thwack_ noise, shuddered a little but stayed firm. Martin held onto his legs and Charles and Cary held onto Martin as the lights flicked off for a long second, all of them yelling at once, filled with adrenalin.

"Come on!"

"You can do it, Joe! Let's go!"

_Thwack._

"Come on! HARDER!"

 _Thwack._ Joe continued bashing at the window as, on the other side of the bus, the alien was doing the exact opposite – perched above the open door, tearing at the metal, trying to widen the hole it had made. Rippling, looming in the moonlit smoke. _Thwack._ Inside, Nelec knelt down and grabbed a rifle off the floor; an M-16, heavy and black. He cocked it and flicked off the safety, looked up just in time to see the creature's arm push through the door again, lashing out wildly and denting the walls.

 _Thwack_. Joe hit the glass again, as hard as he could.

"Go! Joe, please!" Martin yelled hoarsely.

_Thwack. Thwack._

"Come on!" Cary shouted. "Break the glass, you pussy!"

"Come on, Joe! Hit it! Come on!"

He did, and – _bam!_ – suddenly the glass crinkled into a thousand pieces. Joe leaned back but Charles and Martin hollered in pain as the shards rained down all over them, scratching at clothes and faces. Cary jumped away and glanced out the bus' rear window, saw nothing but skidmarks and empty road as Martin righted himself and pushed Joe upwards.

 _RoooOOOoooOOO! Crack-crack-crack! Crack-crack-crack!_ Nelec had started firing at the creature, the gunshots barely audible over the sound of its roars.

"Go, Joe! Move!"

Joe grabbed the edges of the window and pulled himself up, straining with both arms, now half-way, then more, pushing through, until suddenly he was out and collapsing on the side of the bus, breathing in the cold night air – except the air itself seemed to be _vibrating_ , and when he turned to his left he saw the creature RIGHT THERE – its back to him, prying at the metal like a sardine can, impossibly huge – and he knelt there silently for an awful moment, almost paralysed in fear.

 _Crack-crack-crack!_ He saw muzzle flashes inside the bus. Nelec was still firing. The thing growled again, echoing, wavering. Then Martin was climbing out behind him and he crawled back; grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him up to safety.

Then it was Charles' turn. "We gotta go!" Martin barely had time to register the _freaking giant_ grey monster before Charles' fingers were scrabbling metal, Cary helping him from below, Martin and Joe dragging from above as he struggled to climb through. He wriggled into the gap, accidentally lashed out with his foot and kicked Cary square in the face who fell back clutching his nose. "Augh!"

 _Crunch. Crunch. Crack-crack-crack._ The creature snarled, ripped up another sheet of metal and threw it away into the night. Gunfire sparked in the darkness. Cary swore, Joe strained, Martin groaned and somehow Charles was slithering onto the roof as well, red-faced and breathing heavily beneath the open sky. He stared at the alien open-mouthed until all three of them reached in and yanked Cary out by his arms.

"Go! Come on guys, hurry!" They got to their feet on the side of the bus, Cary ushering them towards the rear…

…just as the creature climbed in. Nelec watched as it lowered itself through the hole it had made, dropping heavily to the ground, barely fitting into the tight space. _Crack-crack-crack! Crack-crack-crack-crack!_ The rifle jumped in his hands. He backed away slowly along the length of the bus, grimly determined, heart pounding. _Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack—_

The creature forced itself forwards, smashing benches, pulverising them with single strikes of its limbs; made its way quickly, terrifyingly down the aisle towards him. The thing was a blur of thrashing muscle but all Nelec focused on was its face. A familiar face.

Outside, the boys all jumped to the ground, landing on their feet and sprinting off towards the side of the road. Martin glanced behind him and saw new dents appear in the bus' roof as the creature lashed about inside. The whole highway was covered in debris, burned rubber, shattered glass and they ran past all of it, breathlessly, into the dirt, towards a low grassy depression on the edge of the forest.

Nelec's rifle flashed again and again, the gunfire deafening as it bounced from the walls. He held it steady, still backing away, shooting in bursts – teeth locked in a tight grimace as the alien shrugged it all off. Advancing. Ignoring the bullets.

 _RaaaARRGGH!_ It lunged, snarling. Nelec fired at near point-blank range. _Crack-crack-crack, crack-crack—_

_Click!_

The magazine went empty.

Nowhere to go.

Nelec threw the gun to the ground. He gazed defiantly at the monster, his back pressed against the locked compartment. A futile gesture. _It was my turn to find you, once,_ he thought. _Now, it's your turn to_ _…_ _to…_

The creature descended, and the Colonel gazed upon its face. Glistening eyes. Flaring nose. Segmented mouth. Bony ridges. It definitely _was_ a face, but nothing of this world. The mouth parted, revealing mandibles and teeth and raw red flesh and it growled one last time; leaned in close, so that their eyes were only a foot apart. It had… very _large_ eyes.

Silence, before the final lunge.

There was the barest hint of a smile upon Nelec's lips as he recalled an old man's words: ' _He's in me… as I am in him.'_ Perhaps there was some truth to that. Something about the eyes.

Then: a blur of teeth and a scream and an impact and blood sprayed thick across the bulletproof glass door, obscuring the nightmare from view.

* * *

The bus shuddered from side-to-side, echoing with sounds of destruction; the metal was twisted and torn along the top where the alien had forced its way in. Lying on the grass thirty metres away, the four boys watched in silence, not wanting to even _imagine_ the brutality that was going on inside.

Then there was a low, clicking growl and the creature emerged from the depths, climbing out of the hole upon its many legs. It paused for a moment on the roof, then leapt off – fast and stealthy, away from them into the overgrown trees, like a native hunter. Which, of course, was partly what it was. They could hear it crashing through the undergrowth, breaking branches and snapping twigs until gradually the sounds faded away and the night was finally calm again.

The boys were… sort of stunned. They lay there pressed low into the grass, gulping down air, staring fearfully after the departed monster.

"Is it gone?" Cary asked eventually, whispering.

"Yeah, it's gone."

"Thank _god_. Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"You gotta lose some weight."

"I know." They were all so exhausted he couldn't even bother with a retort. "…I think I just sharteezed a little."


	16. We're Going Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time, but it does contain the first significant change to the movie's plot. One of the things I didn't like was Preston being left behind – it did suit his character, but I felt kind of bad for him and he seemed under-utilised in the movie (it also helps that I'm probably most similar to Preston to real life). So, let's see where this leads! For once I'm making it up as I go along…

Louis Dainard was lost. Well, not _lost –_ technically, he was lying on his tiny air force hospital bed, surrounded by lamps and IV drips and fellow 'patients' at one end of the giant Greenville hangar.

But he felt lost. Lost amidst all of the strange lights and sounds. Lost in a haze of pain and painkillers. Lost, without her.

_He'd almost lost count of the times she'd run off into the night, of all the times he'd gone chasing after her, burning anger instantly fading to regret. Words, fists. It always happened when he'd been drinking. When he'd surrounded himself with painful memories. Maybe she'd start it – saying something she shouldn't, egging him on, just being a rebellious teenager. He started it more often than not, seeing insults and broken promises when really there were none. And then, always, the past would come rising up and suffocate them both._

Alice would run. He'd chase her.

Anger fading to regret.

He did love her. He did, even with their ghost of a family. And he thought she still loved him, deep down: even though sometimes it took a day or two… she always came back. Except now she hadn't.

Lost.

Suddenly, Louis felt hands grab him roughly by his shoulders. He was dragged to his feet, struggling to stand. His legs hurt. His heart hurt.

"Come with us."

"What?"

"We got some questions for you. Come on."

It was two air force soldiers, tall and muscular. They started pushing him forwards. Louis looked around, suddenly panicking. "Oh, no. Is she dead?"

"Just come with us." They kept walking, fast, holding onto his arms in a way that didn't seem very friendly—

"Hey, fellas!"

The soldiers stopped. One of their superiors had come up behind them – Wallace, his name was. "I've got orders from Colonel Nelec to personally deliver this man back to base," he announced.

The soldiers exchanged a glanced. Then nodded. "He's all yours, Staff Sergeant."

Wallace nodded in return, then took Louis' arm and started dragging him in the opposite direction. "Let's go," he muttered. As the soldiers moved off Louis looked up, still confused – and was abruptly even more confused when he saw that Staff Sergeant Wallace was in fact Deputy Jack Lamb in a baggy green air force uniform and cap. Grim face, square jaw. One person he thought he'd never be happy to see.

"…What are you doing?" Louis asked dimly. "Where are we going?"

Jack stared straight ahead as they walked, strong and resolute. "To find our kids."

* * *

About twenty metres back, behind a thin curtain, a pair of eyes saw them go. The eyes were brown, dark and serious… and belonged to a certain Preston Mills.

He was keeping watch from a safe distance, Charles' film reel still clutched in one hand, his magazine clutched in the other. Jack and Louis disappeared around the corner; Preston waited for a couple of seconds before darting out after them. He pushed through the curtain, squeezed past a couple of hospital beds and another group of patients and nervously pressed up against the far wall.

Deputy Lamb hadn't been very impressed when Preston had shown him the movie. In fact, he'd seemed downright furious to find out that some kind of alien monster had been prowling about Lillian. And he'd seemed even _more_ furious when Preston had told him about Joe's plan – going back to town, finding the creature, rescuing Alice.

But the Deputy had kept his promise and hadn't thrown Preston in jail. He _had_ told him to stay put and not leave the evacuation center under any circumstances… but some rules were meant to be broken.

Not many. But some.

Preston took a breath, and peeked around the corner. He saw Jack and Louis skirting past the edge of the hangar, Jack walking quickly, Louis hanging onto his shoulder. The Deputy was nodding at every air force soldier that he passed; none of them appeared to have figured out that he was an imposter. Preston started following and tried to look innocent, but most people seemed far too busy to wonder about what some random teenager was doing.

Of course, that still left plenty of time for _him_ to wonder what he was doing. Which was a problem, because the more Preston thought about it, the more likely it was he'd convince himself that this was all a terribly bad idea and that he should just lie down like a good kid and read his magazine. _Just don't think about that_ , he told himself. _Don't think about getting eaten, or shot, or the quite-high probability of death. Think about your friends. Friends are more important. Friends are… nice. And they could probably use your help._

Up ahead, Jack and Louis had reached some kind of side gate in the hangar. It was guarded by another couple of soldiers, but after a quick salute they stepped aside and let the pair through. Preston ducked down behind a barrel as Deputy Lamb took one last look over his shoulder.

And then the Deputy and Mr. Dainard were gone, walking free into the night. The soldiers closed the gate again and resumed chatting. Preston winced. Because the gate was a problem, and somehow he doubted that he'd be able to just waltz on through. _This calls for some creativity._

He looked around, searching for an exit. The hangar doors were all heavily guarded, and the windows and scaffolding were too high up to climb through. Everyone single person in the evac center was locked tightly inside. Maybe if he waited… no, he had to be quick. Then his eyes settled on a small trapdoor in the floor, half-covered by a canvas sheet. Maybe…

* * *

On the edge of the deserted highway, Joe reached into a dead man's pocket. He felt around until his fingers touched a familiar silvery weight; pulled it out and held it dangling from one finger.

The necklace. Always the necklace. He stared at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands, then exhaled with relief and tiredness. His barely even noticed Overmeyer's broken body, lying on the pavement before him – bloodied face, crumpled uniform, legs twisted at funny angles.

"Hey, guys! Guys, I found them!" Cary called out. He climbed back out onto the roof of the wrecked bus, holding his backpack in one hand. "Hey, guys! I found my firecrackers!"

"Congratulations!" Charles said sarcastically, not really giving a shit. He stood in the middle of the road, looking at the trees, shivering with nervousness. Wondering how Cary had forced himself to go back into that bloody metal deathtrap.

Beneath the huge black sky, Joe kept kneeling beside Overmeyer's body. He balanced the locket in one hand, then the other. Breathed slowly, in and out, focusing on the feel of it, the way the silver glinted in the starlight. The world all around felt so _big_ , but if he just kept holding the necklace it seemed so much more manageable. So much more real.

Then Martin suddenly came running up behind them. "Let's go, guys, they're coming back!" He pointed down the highway to where a pair of headlights was fast approaching. They all turned to look, even Joe.

And no one moved. Frozen, with shock and indecision.

"I think we should go," Martin said desperately. "Guys, come on!"

They were clearly visible, caught out in the open. Easy prey if there were soldiers inside. The lights grew bigger. The car was close but they couldn't see it through the glare, could only hear the growling engine and the soft sound of… music?

Then Joe realised who it was. "No no. Look!"

_'Ah, freak out!_

_Le freak, c'est chic_

_Freak out!'_

Joe got to his feet just as Donny Olsen's blue Catalina pulled up right next to the toppled army bus. The engine sputtered and the lights flicked off - then the door flew open and Donny himself jumped out, arms spread, grinning so widely he looked like the happiest man in the world. "Ah! AAAH! You dorks are _ALIVE?"_ he shouted. "I didn't know… I thought that…"

His gaze turned to bus. Bullet holes, claw marks, two wheels sticking in the air. The grin faded.

"What the _fuck_?!"

"Donny. Donny," Joe said urgently, walking up to him. "We need a ride into town."

Donny looked around earnestly. "Okay, but just so you know, I'm _massively_ stoned right now."

"…Do you want me to drive?"

_'Ah, freak out!_

_Le freak, c'est chic_

_Freak out!'_

Martin stared. Charles stared. Cary stared from the top of the bus, backpack in one hand. Donny winced like it was hurting just to think.

Joe decided to take that as a 'yes'.

* * *

Preston crouched down, glanced around to make sure no-one was watching – but he was the only person snooping in this quiet corner of the hangar. He kicked off the sheet and grasped the trapdoor handle, bracing himself against the dirty cement floor.

_Crreeaak!_

He pulled it open with a grunt and stared distastefully into the space below. It looked like… some kind of hallway? First there was a cylindrical access shaft, which opened up into a thin, murky corridor, just bare concrete from what he could see. A rusty ladder led down from the trapdoor to the floor perhaps five metres below.

Tunnels, under the air base. He'd heard about these sorts of things – the soldiers would use them in emergencies to get around rapidly, or if the airbase was under attack.

This probably qualified as an emergency. Preston sighed, and shivered, and before he could think about it too much he lowered himself into the hole and grabbed onto the ladder. The metal was deathly cold. He took the canvas sheet and pulled it half-way over the opening, making it a bit less noticeable but still letting enough light in to see by. Then climbed down the ladder, holding on tightly, and before he knew it he was standing at the bottom.

The tunnel was dark; _pitch_ black. It was also low, and he had to stoop down to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. The only light was coming down through the trapdoor, illuminating a couple of metres in either direction. The tunnel probably hadn't been used in years. Decades. _Anything could be down here._

_Oh, don't be stupid. There's probably nothing down here except dust and spiders._

_What's that? You hate spiders? How nice of you to remind me, brain._

But despite everything, he felt a kind of thrill. Not the petrified heart-attack thrill he'd felt during the train crash – but the tiny little thrill of doing something adventurous for once. He took a few experimental steps forward, and nothing jumped out at him from the darkness.

So Preston started walking. The only sound was his footsteps, echoing along the passageway, and a faint buzz of conversation from up above. And as his eyes adjusted to the gloom it seemed that there _was_ a bit of light – a faint glow in the distance that provided something to aim for.

_It would've been really great if you brought a torch, huh. Always forgetting the simple stuff._

_…Better hurry up. Deputy Lamb and Mr. Dainard are probably half-way to escaping right now._

"Augh!" He jumped as a stringy spiderweb draped itself across his face. Preston ducked down and brushed it off furiously, swearing in a very un-Preston-like way. "Crap." He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and kept walking, shaking a little. Dust. Footsteps. The blackness all around was almost suffocating, but he did his best to ignore it and focus on the light in the distance, keeping one hand on the wall to his left. It wasn't actually so bad down in the tunnel - dark, sure, but at least it was quiet. And cobwebs were fine (as long as there were no spiders attached).

He kept breathing. Kept walking. It _was_ still a little scary. Then, suddenly, his hand left the wall and suddenly he was touching only emptiness. He realised that he must be at some kind of intersection – four tunnels, all crossing each other. Shadows all around.

_Click_.

He froze. A sound, from… somewhere.

_Click._

He whirled around and held his breath, listening. Four tunnels. All dark. He couldn't tell which one. But going straight seemed like the best option regardless. Preston forced himself to keep moving swiftly, tried to ignore the fact that his heart was having a rock concert in his chest. _There's nothing else down here. No monsters, no aliens. Nothing but spiders. And you._ He could hear people talking from the main floor of the hangar above and tried to figure out where he was; surely he was almost at the edge of the building by now.

_Click._

He jumped again. The back of his neck prickled. The sound seemed closer, whatever it was, and he cursed his own stupidity. _You should've gone with them, Joe and the others. You shouldn't have panicked. Maybe THEN you'd be sitting all comfortable in someone's car instead of crawling through a really lame tunnel._

_Or maybe, if you didn't have such an annoying sense of duty, you could be lying in bed reading about aliens instead of sneaking out to hunt one._

_Or maybe you should just stop talking to yourself!_

"Any word from Nelec?"

A voice, directly above him. Preston looked up cautiously and saw a thin shaft a few metres above, with a vent at the top. That was the source of the light he'd seen – and a brown leathery solder's boot was standing right on top of it.

"Not yet. They can't contact anyone from the Dustoff group."

"You think something happened to them?"

"Nah. There shouldn't be any danger outside the perimeter, it's only the town we have to worry about. That's where it's chosen to keep its territory..."

The soldiers moved off. Preston let out the breath he'd been holding. He kept walking forwards one foot at a time, until, suddenly, the noise faded and he was pushing through another long pitch-black section, listening intently, filled with dust and cracked concrete and the echoes of his own rasping breathing, until—

"Ow!" His knee slammed straight into something hard and metallic. After he got over the shock, Preston reached out with his hand and felt a… ladder?

It was a ladder, standing in the middle of the hallway. _Mint. Mint mint mint._ Preston felt around a bit more and found the rungs; started climbing as fast as he could. His knee throbbed. Out of the hallway, into the thin access shaft, until he reached the trapdoor at the top. He pushed up against it with his shoulder, panicked briefly when it wouldn't move and then realised there was a latch holding it in place. "Oh." He quickly unlocked it and stuck his head through, peering around.

At least he could see again, thank god. Apparently he'd come out somewhere in the middle of the airfield – in a wide-open area dotted with buildings and dead grass, nothing but stars overhead. He shivered again, shaking the last dregs of cobwebs and shadows from his mind; when he looked back down into the shaft, he half-expected to see a monstrous face staring up at him, ready to drag him back into the gloom. _Where are they, where are they…_

_There_. In a nice piece of luck, the Deputy and Mr. Dainard were barely fifty metres distant, walking towards a line of parked jeeps over by the edge of the base. Preston glanced behind him at the hangar. It loomed large, light pouring from its windows but there didn't appear to be any guards outside, so he pulled himself from the shaft and started creeping towards the line of vehicles.

Closer, closer. He kept quiet, trying to stay out of the light, holding his breath in a fishy sort of way. Pale skin. Eyes wide. At least out here it was nice and warm, surrounded by the summer air. He crept speedily over the grass, staying as low as he could, praying that they wouldn't turn around.

They didn't. But now Jack and Louis had reached the jeeps. Somehow Jack had found a key and he bundled Louis into the passenger's seat, lowering him carefully on unsteady legs. Ten seconds later, Preston came to the rearmost jeep and crouched down quickly. He heard Jack's footsteps as he walked around the front, heard him open the driver's side door.

Suddenly Preston realised that he hadn't thought this far ahead. He couldn't simply reveal himself, because then the Deputy would just go and dump him back in the hangar. And he couldn't steal his own jeep because a) he didn't have a key and b) he had no idea how to drive one.

So, thinking quick, Preston did the only thing he could. He waited until Jack had started the jeep's engine, hoping that it would mask the sound; then he ran forwards and unzipped the canvas back-flap, fingers fumbling, and somehow managed to scramble up and roll himself into the boot without anyone noticing.

He lay there for a moment, struggling to breathe, acutely aware of the rumble of the engine and the toolbox digging into his back and the two adults sitting just a few feet away. At least the jeep wasn't moving yet. He reached around and zipped up the flap again, inch-by-inch, wondering how the hell his brain had let him get into this situation. Usually it flashed a big fat ' _Nope!_ ' flag at the first sign of danger - and this seemed pretty dangerous.

"How're you doing?" Jack asked loudly.

Preston barely managed to suppress a girlish squeal.

"Fine. Fine," Louis replied. He sounded scared. "Leg still hurts."

"Well, I'm glad for you, because I've definitely been better. You ready?"

"Yeah."

"Then let's go." Jack put the jeep into gear, then pulled out of the parking lot with tires squealing. Preston was jolted forwards, slamming painfully into the seats as they bounced over the asphalt. He bit his lip and stayed quiet. Something was digging into his stomach and he looked down and saw—

Lying right there was a video camera. It looked almost exactly like Charles'. The wide black lens was staring right at him, and there was even some film inside.

Preston picked it up and clutched it to his chest to stop it bouncing around in the darkness. He didn't really believe in God, but sometimes… well, maybe it was destiny. _Maybe helping your friends is the right thing to do._

Or maybe they were all going to be dead in an hour and the universe just had a weird sense of humour. That seemed _far_ more likely.


	17. The Scared Little Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TANKS! EXPLOSIONS! CHARLES IS THIRSTY AND HE'S IN A WARZONE!
> 
> Again, I have noticed I'm using American and British words interchangeably – feet/metres, torch/flashlight, footpath/sidewalk etc. I should use the American terms since this is an American story, but sometimes I just feel stubborn and insist on being all Australian. Hopefully this isn't *too* distracting!

For the second time that night, Donny's Pontiac Catalina drove through the hilly back streets of Lillian. The road was dark and wet with rain, reflecting the car's headlights – the only movement in this deserted part of town.

Inside, Joe gripped the wheel tightly, watching the road. Charles stared out the window. Donny sat between them, apparently asleep, head lolling from side to side while Martin and Cary talked in the back. A couple of distant thuds echoed through the night.

"Guys, what was that?" Cary asked.

"It sounds like gunshots," Martin replied.

The car bounced over a drain as more thuds reached their ears. Charles turned to him. "Joe, where are we going?"

"I saw something in the cemetery," he answered, staring straight ahead. "Woodward said it was subterranean. I think I know where it is—"

Then Cary jumped up and pointed at the _M41 Bulldog tank_ that had suddenly appeared on the crest of the hill in front of them. "What the hell is that?! MOVE THE DAMN CAR!—"

 _BOOM!_ A concussive gunblast, deafeningly loud. Flames erupted from the tank. There were some soldiers running towards them too and Joe wrenched the wheel sideways, the car screeching left into another street with the boys all leaning over and screaming in unison. "AAAAAAAHHHHHH!" But there was another tank at the top of this hill too, wreathed in smoke, and a second one behind it, and – _BOOM!_ – another huge blast as it fired over the car at some unseen target. They kept screaming, covering their ears while Joe turned again, slammed on the brakes, jolted to a stop in the nearest driveway. The tanks rumbled towards them, huge in the darkness.

"GOD!"

"Joe, turn the car around!" Martin screamed.

"I can't there's a tank behind us!"

"Holy SHIT!" Charles yelled. They looked around in panic at the billowing smoke and the armoured tanks rolling down the street right behind them. "What are they shooting at?"

"Guys, we have to run!" Joe turned to Donny and shook his shoulders. "Donny! Hey Donny, wake up! We have to get out of here!" But the guy didn't even move – just lay there, eyes closed, flopped back in his seat. "He's too stoned!" Cary shouted.

Martin quivered. "Drugs are _so_ bad!"

 _Pew-pew-pew! Pew-pew-pew!_ Bursts of tracer fire zipped past overhead. At the far end of the street a rocket arced into the air, trailing sparks. They piled out of the car as fast as they could while the two tanks passed by barely metres away. "We gotta go by foot!" Joe said.

"Where?"

"Just – just follow me!"

"GO!"

 _BOOM!_ Another tank fired. Smoke erupted from the barrel and a second later someone's lawn was consumed in bright yellow fire. The shockwave nearly knocked the breath from their lungs. The four boys sprinted uphill, away from the army vehicles, dodging toppled electrical poles and crushed fences and pieces of burning debris.

"Why is everyone _firing_?" Cary asked.

"Guys come on, hurry!" Joe skidded around the side of a white weatherboard house, zig-zagging across the grass. _BOOM!_ A curling fireball was reflected in the windows, turning the world red and orange. Charles leapt over a smashed suitcase. There was a thin dirt path here that cut between two rows of houses, one that they always used on their bikes – it led downhill towards the centre of town, past empty backyards and dark green trees. Joe and the others ran onto the path, arms pumping, almost tripping over their own feet.

"This is CRAZY!" Martin screamed. "What is going ON!?" Gunfire echoed from the hills all around. A rocket was whirling through the air on the right and it _speared_ down into the next street over, sending showers of sparks into the night. "Look! It just exploded! That could've been US!"

* * *

Somewhere on the other side of town, US Air Force Captain Scott Rhodes was shouting into a radio. "Sir! The weapons are misfiring! All of 'em!" His eyes were wide and his voice was full of panic. A rocket arced through the air behind him trailing yellow embers, while squads of air force men ran past. "Surface to air, radar – it's a mess out here, sir!"

He looked around, following the chaos. Another squad sprinted towards the firefight. And then—

 _whooshhhhhhhhBLAM!_ Another rocket slammed into the grass twenty metres away, almost taking out a house. Rhodes flinched and whirled around as fire bloomed in the sky, so bright and hot it was like a second sun.

* * *

"Guys! Guys, RUUUNNN!" Cary yelled.

They ran. Joe led the way as they turned off the path, squeezing between two houses and cutting across an empty back yard. They dashed across the grass, parallel to the road, past paddle-pools and garden chairs and carports; slid down a ditch and into the next yard along. Four boys racing through a neighbourhood under siege. _Crack-crack-crack! Crack-crack!_ The gunfire sounded close now, sharp and loud.

"Come on!"

"What the hell _IS_ this?"

They burst through someone's washing line, sending clothes and bedsheets flying, down another dip and into the next yard. _Crack! Crack-crack-crack!_ All of a sudden there was a low fence in front of them and they jumped over it at full pelt – arms flailing, jackets flying our behind them. _"_ Go Cary, go!" Charles rolled when he hit the ground and the others stumbled forwards, quickly pushed themselves up and kept running. "Augh! Jesus!"

"Go!"

The house behind them was on fire, flames licking from the windows and from holes in the roof. Tracer fire streaked across the stars. Joe spotted a gate in the next fence and ran up to it, pushed it open. _THUD!_

Then he stopped. And the others stopped behind him, all staring in amazement at the sight of a tank _sliding on its side_ down the middle of the road, metal screeching like it had been hit by a giant—

"What the hell?"

 _WOooooOOOOOooo!_ An earsplitting alien roar. The tank tipped over onto its turret, upside-down, and shockingly the turret FIRED and the tank jolted back and there was the sound of breaking cinderblocks as the shell smashed through a wall.

"Holy shit!" Cary screamed, whirling around – but the alien was nowhere to be seen amidst the bushes and clouds of smoke. Joe forced himself to look away just as a helicopter swept by overhead, searchlight blinking, and the boys ran off across the road. Hedges blurred by on either side and they darted into the next alleyway, the back route that led behind Deputy Rosko's house. The helicopter's searchlight blinked again. Joe felt his legs beginning to ache. _Crack-crack-crack!_ He heard the creature again, more distant this time, but the sound still made his stomach shiver. He tried to figure out where they were going, whether they should just try and run to safety or cut across town towards the cemetery—

—until suddenly they emerged into Ramsit Park. It was a big grassy square surrounded by houses on all sides, with a basketball court and a half-a-dozen bits of playground equipment in the middle; filled with kids after school every day, and usually a happy, quiet place.

But now soldiers jogged across the rain-slicked pavement, rifles at the ready. Jeeps and APCs swerved along the streets. Half the houses had fires flickering on their rooves, enveloped in ashen blankets. Torrents of gunfire, orange tracers. A rocket spiralled across town like a shooting star before diving and almost hitting a truck. Men ducked for cover. Every military vehicle had its gun shooting in sharp irregular bursts, flashing and sending bullets up and down the streets.

It was insane. Unbelievable. But it was happening, and it was real, and the four boys sprinted out of the alleyway and into the absolute chaos. Joe decided to aim for the nearest house, so they crossed the road and started racing across the park, slipping through the fence, around the basketball court, while machine-guns fired and another rocket exploded in the distance.

"Why is everyone firing!" Cary yelled.

"I don't know!" Charles retorted breathlessly. "Stop _asking!"_

One of the APCs was shooting as it drove, bullets sparking off an overturned car. Something else exploded right behind them, scorchingly bright, so close that Martin could feel the heat on his neck as he brought up the rear. Joe ducked around a slide and some monkey-bars and through the second gate, running uphill towards the next row of houses – the closest one was a two-storey grey brick building, maybe something they could take cover in, catch their breath—

_BOOM! Rat-tat-tat. BOOM!_

"Go, come on! Move ahead!" More explosions, a bit more distant – shattered bricks scattering across the grass. Then another big hit ahead of them. Charles looked behind him at the roaring fires, almost tripped on the hillside. "Go, everybody, keep going!"

"AAH! Oh my god!" Martin turned and saw a tank driving across the park after them. It rolled straight through the outer fence, crushing it under its treads, then through the playground as well, knocking the slide clean over. Metal crunched beneath its 20-ton weight. Then his glasses picked the _worst_ possible time to fall off his nose. "Crap! Crap crap crap!" He reached down, stumbled, managed to grab them with sweaty fingers.

_BANG!_

And then Joe reached the house. He leapt up onto the driveway, past a pair of smiling garden gnomes, saw that the carport door was open and ran straight inside with the others following close behind.

* * *

"Come on guys, move."

They pounded up the steps to the second floor, breathing hard, crowding in the narrow stairwell. Most of the lights in the house were out except for one tipped-over lamp that cast harsh shadows on their faces. "Did you guys see those explosions?" Cary asked excitedly. "They were – they were huge!"

At the top of the stairs was a kitchen: pale blue cupboards, flowery curtains, a half-prepared dinner still sitting on the sink. It was an amazing relief to be safe inside. Joe ran to the window and peered out while Charles took a breather, leaning back on the bench; the others looked around the strange dark room, lights flickering. Every couple of seconds there was the _crash_ of a distant detonation. Joe flinched back from the window when the house shuddered, bathed in bright white firelight.

"Oh my god."

"Whose house is this?" Martin asked.

"It's Kathy's," Cary said tersely. He handed him a photo. "I got it off the fridge."

"Kathy… yeah, I know her. Kathy's cool."

Another explosion. Cary started going through drawers. Charles spotted a bottle of Coke on the counter; stared at it critically for a moment, then gulped it down. Martin saw him and pointed in disbelief.

"Charles, what are you thinking, dude? That's not yours!"

His friend nearly choked on the bottle. "What!" he shrieked back. "I'm thirsty and I'm a _warzone_!"

Joe stood at the window, thinking, trying to figure out a way through the aforementioned warzone – when abruptly a couple of soldiers' voices echoed out behind them.

_"Clear! Clear!"_

_"Come on, move!"_

_"Let's go, move out!"_

They all froze. The voices sounded close and Martin barely stopped himself from screaming. "Oh my g—..."

"Guys, come one, let's go," Joe announced. He started moving back towards the stairs, into the next room. The others followed.

"Where are we _going_?" Cary asked for what felt like the fifth time.

"To the cemetery. I'm—"

 _CRAAASH!_ An incredible concussion. The wall _BLEW_ inwards in a cloud of and splintered plaster – Joe felt himself get lifted into the air thump down onto the ground, thrown sideways by the shockwave – the world spinning – and suddenly he was coughing and everything hurt and there was dust everywhere, smoke everywhere and his brain couldn't even think. He lay there, struggling to breathe, ears ringing with the impact. Debris rained down over their heads. But then he heard someone yelling and he forced himself to look up, shook his head—

"Guys, what happened to my leg?! Man, it hurts!" Martin was sitting up against a ripped-apart couch, screaming blinking back tears behind his thick lenses. His leg was stretched out in front of him. It ran with blood. Joe shook his head again and stood up, staring at the dust and the darkness. "ARRGH! My _leg!_ "

Charles crawled over to his fallen friend and bent over him in shock. "Holy _shit_ Martin, you've got a bone sticking out of your leg!"

"There's a HOLE in the HOUSE!" Cary shouted. "GOD!"

There was a hole – a gaping big hole where the front wall used to be, ugly and jagged, and when Joe looked through it he could see more soldiers, and more tanks, and— _BOOM!_ The nearest tank fired and the air _snapped_. Martin slapped his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth.

"Joe, gimme that thing off the curtains!" Charles ordered.

Joe saw a curtain tie somehow still hanging on the wall. He ran over and grabbed it, still dizzy, handed it to Charles. _"Hold your fire!" "Move, move!"_ Military vehicles drove by on the street outside while Charles knotted the curtain tie into a thick fabric tourniquet. Cary ducked as sparks showered from ripped-open electrical wires.

And as Joe stood in the ruined house – Martin crying in pain, the battle going on outside, the taste of blood and gunpowder in his mouth – he felt a strange kind of clarity. _I have to go. I'm gonna have to leave them behind_. The thought hurt.

But he leant down and said it anyway. "I've gotta go find Alice!" he told Charles. "You guys stay here with Martin!"

His friend stood stood up. No arguments, for once. "…You gonna be okay without me?" Charles asked – staring in that ultra-sincere way of his, face covered in scratches, yellow jacket dirty and torn.

Joe paused. Nodded. "Yeah."

Two best friends.

Suddenly Cary ran up between them. "I'm NOT staying with the girls!" he shouted.

Charles shrieked back, right in his face. " _God,_ Cary! Shut! UP!"

Cary jerked towards him. "CALM – _DOWN!"_

"Come on, COME ON!" Joe quickly grabbed Cary's arm and dragged him off before he could punch someone – through the hole in the house, out onto the street.

"It _hurts_ Joe!" Martin moaned. "It hurts!"

But Joe and Cary were already gone, sprinting across the rubble. Charles knelt down and took the curtain tie. "Okay, this is going to hurt really bad, okay?" He reached out and—

"AAUUUGGH!" Martin screamed, writhing in pain.

" _Jesus_ , Martin, I haven't _done_ it yet!"

* * *

They ran. Through the dust and the ash, past ripped-up street signs and dented cars, towards the center of their semi-demolished town. Bullets flying overhead. Feet pounding on the sidewalk. Wet streets, green grass, rooves burning yellow against the jet-black sky. Squads of soldiers moved in the distance. A helicopter roamed up above.

And they kept running. Not looking back, covering their heads when a rocket sped past and burst into glowing orange fingers. Brilliant heat, choking smoke, breathe rasping in their lungs. Leaving their friends behind. Chaos was everywhere, behind, ahead, filling their hearts with fear, but the two tiny figures kept on running until they were lost in the night.

* * *

They stopped, out of breath, at the graves.

"So what are we doing here?" Cary asked.

"Just, just follow me. Just follow me," Joe replied, panting.

"I've been following you for the last five blocks! What are we doing here?"

They jogged down the cemetery's central path, between finely-manicured lawns and drooping willow trees. And endless field of gravestones stretched into the distance shining silver in the moonlight. Joe remembered sitting here just a few nights ago, amongst the crosses and flowers and his own painful sadness. Remembered seeing… something.

"Come on, through these doors." Joe led the way to the caretaker's shed: a low white building on the edge of the grass, its windows caked with dirt. It had three big sets of doors and he quickly tried opening the first one. "Help me."

"Help you with _what?_ "

"We have to get inside."

He turned the handle but it felt like it was locked. Cary stood there for a moment, bewildered, then shook his head and started pushing on the door as well. "Okay, okay. For what?"

"I'll tell you in a second." Joe ran to the second door, tried that one too. Cary helped him, leaning into it, but—

 _Click._ Also stuck. They both grunted with effort and irritation and scrambled over to the third set of doors. Joe knew as soon as he touched them that they were locked too – but the doors seemed to move slightly.

"Why is there dirt in these windows?" Cary asked.

"It's here," he muttered in reply.

"What's in here? Joe—"

"Hard on three. One, two, three–"

Joe slammed his shoulder into the door. It rattled on its hinges.

"One, two, three–"

 _BAM!_ Cary joined him, bashing down the door together.

"One, two, three–"

_BAM!_

"One, two, three–"

_BAM!_

They threw their weight into the wood, again and again, shoulders aching – _BAM!_ _BAM! BAM! BAM!_ – felt something begin to give and splinter. And finally, CRASH! The door kicked open, swinging inwards as the lock tore apart. Joe and Cary staggered forwards with the impact and almost fell inside.

But thank goodness they didn't, because the shed didn't have a floor anymore.

"Whoa," Cary murmured. It looked like the entire _floor_ of the shed had been dug out, and now dropped straight down into a deep, shadowy pit. Dirt piled against the walls and caked over the windows. Ancient tree roots dangled from the edges. They caught their breath and stared in amazement at the huge hole in the earth.

"This… this is scary."

Joe glanced at Cary's bag. "You got any sparklers in there?"

Cary just stared at him. "…Are you kidding me?" He took off his backpack, unzipped it, and dumped about twenty packs of Fourth of July sparklers onto the ground. Joe took one and held it out in front of him; a cigarette lighter magically appeared in Cary's hands, and he lit the sparkler and it flared into life. _SSSSsssss…_

Joe stepped forwards and chucked the sparkler out into the pit. It dropped down, down, bouncing off the rough dirt walls, hissing while it fell into the deep black darkness. The tunnel was straight for a while, then seemed to open up, and the pale yellow light grew smaller and smaller, fading to just a pinprick…

…until eventually it came to a stop on the distant floor of the tunnel.

He couldn't tell how far it was. Forty feet? Fifty? (Too far to jump, anyway, that was for sure.) But burning on the bottom of the newly-dug hole, the sparkler seemed to be illuminating a wide, dark chamber.

They exchanged a glance. Standing there nervously on the edge of the abyss, it looked more like a portal into nightmares.

"Alice is down there," Joe whispered.

* * *

A jeep raced down the highway.

Inside, Jack Lamb was driving fast. Louis sat next him, still vaguely woozy from the painkillers. As he waited, watching the black and endless road, he glanced at the man sitting by him in the dark; the chiselled face, the dark eyes that stared straight ahead into infinity.

He felt like nothing next to that. So Louis looked away again, vulnerable and sad. The air was… awkward, though not angry, and the loud rumble of the jeep's engine filled the silence anyway.

Nevertheless…

Maybe it was the drugs, maybe he was scared. But Louis Dainard realised that fixing _anything_ needed someone to take the first step. And maybe he _could_ fix things – for Alice. For his daughter. Maybe he could try. All he had to do was find the right words.

The right words were hard to find.

"…I came to your house that day…" Louis said eventually, "to tell you that I never meant to hurt _anyone_. I swear to God." His voice was quiet, as sincere as it had ever been. Tears pleaded in his eyes. "I'm _sorry_ , Jack. About what happened to your wife."

Jack's mouth twitched, a hard line. He kept staring at the road as Louis turned away.

Finally, after a long, painful moment, he said: "…It was an accident."

Louis' face was in in the corner of his eye. The square jaw, the streak of dried blood still running down his forehead. That face had stood for a lot of pain over the years, and now it was hopefully turned towards him.

"It was an accident," Jack said again. He gave a small nod, of forgiveness and gratitude – and quietly, they both accepted it. Louis for his daughter, and Jack for his son, and because he was tired of fighting, and maybe, deep down, because he knew that Elizabeth… Elizabeth would…

A few short words couldn't overcome years of pain, but it was a start.

The miles passed by. Moonlight shone on the surrounding forest, and on the two figures in the car. It even shone on a third figure, lying silently in the back. Until:

"Wait. There's something up ahead." Jack pointed out the window, where it appeared that something blocking the road. A bus, it looked like, parked diagonally across both lanes – except the lights inside were flickering and it was tipped up _on its side_?

"Oh, no."

"What is it?"

Jack slowed down and brought the jeep to a stop right next to the fallen bus. He leapt out with the engine still running, barked at Louis ("Stay in the car!") but Louis got out and followed him anyway, hobbling along after. It was like something out of a dream – the smoking bus, sitting at an angle with giant rents torn in its side. Shattered glass covering the road with skid-marks a hundred feet long behind it. A trail of broken branches leading into the surrounding forest.

But Jack only had eyes for one thing. He picked his way over to the rear of the wreck, to where a grey canvas bag was lying on the asphalt.

 _'Joe L.'_ was written on it in sharp black texter.

He knelt down and picked the bag up; turned it over in his hands. He tried not to think of the bus behind him, and of whatever thing had attacked it. Tried not to think of Joe being dragged off, and dropping the bag from his fingers…

"I can't lose both of them," he said quietly.

Then he felt Louis walk up behind him. The man paused, put a hand on his shoulder. "You're not going to," he said. "We're gonna find them."

* * *

Preston watched from the back of the jeep, peering out through the windscreen. He saw Deputy Lamb pick up a bag from the ground, saw Mr. Dainard walk up behind him. He actually felt almost embarrassed at listening in on their conversation earlier… at least it seemed like they'd worked something out.

The _bus_ , though. The _bus_. He stared at the wreck with wide eyes, imagination running in overdrive as he tried to figure out what had happened. Something had hit it, perhaps, from the angle it was lying at, or maybe it had tried to dodge something and turned too sharp. The monster had definitely been the cause though: you could tell from all the jagged tears along the side of the bus, and from the deep claw marks than scoured the dirt next to the highway.

Outside, he saw the Deputy look up and point in the rough direction of Lillian. Then the two adults turned and started walking back to the jeep. Preston quickly ducked out of sight, lying down in the back.

A few seconds later, the doors opened. "It should only be a ten minute drive from here," Jack grunted.

"God, I hope so."

Two shapes sat down. The doors shut. Jack took the wheel and after a few revs of the engine, the jeep started moving again. Faster and faster, onwards to the town.

"…Jack?" Louis said suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Preston didn't hear a reply. But in the darkness of the jeep, he could almost feel Deputy Lamb's tiny, tired smile.


	18. Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess you could say I have… plans… about modifying the climax of the movie. It seems like the original ending was a little bigger and longer, and isn't even included in the deleted scenes on the DVD – most likely because it contains unfinished special effects. I've decided to guess what these scenes would be about, and doing that (and adding Preston) required me to fudge around with the timeline a bit. I'm not sure if the story will be any *better* as a result, but at least it should be more…interesting?
> 
> Also: longest chapter yet. Hooray! (And also one of the most frustrating. There's about three different versions of this sitting on my hard drive.) I also added some more dialogue from the script; I'm not sure how well I pulled it off, but hopefully the big emotional moments come through. And with that:

Joe tugged on the rope to make sure it was secure. One end was tied to a ring in the wall. The other coiled into the pit. Then, slowly, he started climbing down. Cary watched nervously as he disappeared into the darkness. The edge of the hole was shallow, but it soon steepened into a near-vertical drop, until the only things between him and falling were the rope and the soles of his old, worn-out sneakers.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

He gripped the rope tightly, holding it close to his body. Instead of looking down he just looked for spots to put his feet, descending step by step, muscles shivering. He tried to remember anything he could from that one time they'd been rock-climbing on school camp – anything besides 'you must wear the proper safety equipment at all times'. _Keep your feet flat on the surface. Test footholds before you put your weight on them_. His shoes scraped on the rock.

Luckily the walls were rough, covered in ridges and cracks and concentric grooves that gave him little spots to stand on. It almost looked like a natural cave, except… there was something _off_ about it. The way the sides curved around in almost perfect circles. The way the ledges zig-zagged up and down the walls. Joe took short, sharp breaths, just focusing on one foot, then the other foot, peering through the shadows, the rope passing between his hands – until suddenly his shoes touched the hard-packed dirt forty feet below.

He let go of the rope and stretched his arms. It was dark as hell down here, the only light coming from the shed far above.

"I'm done!"

"Okay, I'm coming."

Cary took hold of the rope and started climbing down after him, scampering quickly over the rock like he was born to it. The backpack full of sparklers was still slung across his shoulders. Barely thirty seconds later he was at the bottom too, and Joe held his arms out to catch him as he dropped the last couple of feet.

"It's dark down here," Cary whispered.

Wordlessly, Joe took a sparkler from his pocket. Cary grinned a little and whipped out his lighter and soon the cavern was filled with hissing, flickering light – just enough to see by.

Joe turned around, holding the sparkler like a candle. The cavern was round, oddly-shaped, dug directly from the black earth and rock; the corners curved in and out and were almost organic in appearance. Weird shadows bounced off the walls. Even the slightest movement sent quiet echoes through the heavy, still air.

Importantly, it was empty. And more importantly, it appeared there were three ways to go: three tall passageways tunnelling into the earth.

Suddenly there was a sound in the darkness – the _thwack_ of a stone hitting the ground. They whirled around. "Joe, I – I don't understand—" Cary began.

"Shh!" He listened, trying to figure out where it had come from. Then there was another sound, almost like… a siren? And a low, distant mechanical rumble.

That was enough. "This way," Joe whispered.

They began walking into the tunnels.

* * *

The tunnel was an oval maybe fifteen feet high, with the same irregular shape as it curved back and forth. The walls were covered in shallow grooves that looked like they'd been _dug_ from the soil – not by a machine, but by a set of giant, clawed fingers…

The sparkler was just a pinprick in the darkness.

"Something's freaking me out, Joe," Cary murmured. "I think – I think it's the digging."

"It's from another planet and the _digging_ is what bothers you?"

"Yeah… this thing's been here only a few days. I wonder how it made all this?"

Joe didn't have an answer for him. But while they walked, Joe with the sparkler, Cary right behind him, faces covered in soot and grime – he knew they were close. He could feel it.

He also felt scared. Really scared, with a dull tightness in his chest and legs that were ready to bolt. Joe ran one of his hands along the wall and it felt dry, cold. Dead. The tunnel wound its way past a set of grasping tree roots and Cary turned his head to watch as they passed, as if the roots might suddenly lunge out and grab them. Their footsteps echoed in the gloom.

Then they emerged into a larger chamber, and there was a box lying on the ground before them. A coffin.

They stopped.

It was three coffins, actually. Three long wooden rectangles covered in muck. One had a golden cross embossed on the top. Another had its lid awfully close to falling off, revealing the edge of an ancient white sheet. Beside them, a headstone was stuck in the dirt, spookily lit by the sparkler's feeble glow.

"This is scary too," Cary whispered.

Joe stared at the scene in shock. He stepped a little closer. Cary followed, drawn forwards by horrid fascination.

The coffins just… sat there. So did, presumably, the corpses inside. Then, with a mounting sense of dread, they looked up—

—and saw half-a-dozen more coffins sagging through the roof of the cave. Dark boxes, old skin and bones, barely held in place by a layer of wet dirt. The cemetery was bequeathing its dead.

Before they could do anything else, there was another clatter in the distance – a metallic echo. Joe turned around and listened, thankful for something else to focus on.

"It's coming from over there."

They ran. Towards the noise, sliding down a ridge and around an outcropping while the shaft dug deeper into the earth. As the tunnel kept curving, and the air kept getting colder, the coffins were soon left far behind until there were just shadows all around them. Cary lit another sparkler when the first one died and Joe held it high out in front.

More running. They passed through another cavity, littered with fallen beams and furniture. When they looked up, they saw another hole leading to the distant surface – this one chewed right through the floor of someone's living room, a jagged tear in the floorboards revealing a lamp and a sofa and a TV still switched on.

 _"Why are you so surprised?"_ said a man on the television. _"I always wear lipstick on my shirt!"_

The studio audience laughed, though it sounded oddly fake.

There was an intersection at the other side where a new shaft branched off, but Joe kept going straight on instinct. The mechanical rumbling sound seemed to be getting louder in that direction. The tunnels, though, were still the same, rippling and curving like a frozen stone wave. Joe's sparkler ran out and Cary handed him another one, the cigarette lighter going _click!_ in the darkness.

Then he noticed a dim light up ahead, coming from around the next bend. And past it… the passage seemed to open up. Joe put the sparkler out and slowed down to a walk. In the background he could hear a loud electrical buzz,the siren-like sound of machinery powering on and off mixed with a couple of sharp _ZAPS_. They crept forwards cautiously, staying close to the wall as the roof grew taller, until… until they saw something amazing.

A hundred-foot-diameter, forty-foot-high underground space, absolutely huge, dug from the earth like the rest of the tunnels. A carpet of tree roots dangled from the ceiling. More tunnels led off in every direction. But this chamber also held an alien marvel – a massive, bizarre contraption so complex that it was hard for their eyes to take it in, a child's scribble of metal and plastic that filled the entire cave.

It was a mess of mechanical pieces, from microwaves to car engines, TV antennas, support frames, batteries and electrical transformers and countless other devices. Everything was connected by a thick web of wires and cables. Sparks showered from shorted connections; light glowed from makeshift hanging bulbs. Fans clicked and whirred in the shadows. Appliances beeped. It all seemed to lead up to the dirt ceiling, to somewhere up above ground. The thick-with-fumes space had an acidic, battery-kind-of-smell, and it chugged and hummed with a slowly increasing pitch – like the whole thing was warming up and getting ready to finally, actually, work.

The heart of darkness.

Joe and Cary kept creeping forward, unable to keep the amazement from their eyes. They made their way to the edge of the chamber where the sound of the machine filled the air. It was incredible. Cary stepped sideways to get a better look and felt something brush his ear.

He turned. And found himself face-to-face with a man. A man, eyes closed, dead maybe, hanging upside-down from the ceiling, and Cary's eyes widened in horror and he gulped down a breath and felt a scream building in his throat—

Joe clapped his hand over Cary's mouth and dragged him back into the gloom. Cary struggled, still trying to scream, staring at the hanging figure.

"It's Sheriff _Pruitt_!" he hissed, tearing the hand from his mouth.

"I know." The sheriff's face was grotesque in the darkness. But Joe was already gazing around the rest of the chamber, feeling sick. "Cary, look. There are bodies _everywhere_."

They dangled from the ceiling, half-hidden in the haze – a dozen people, maybe more, all hanging upside-down and wrapped in some kind of thin cocoon. Most of them were unmoving and perfectly still, with one or two swaying slightly on the end of their long, silky ropes.

"What is this?" Cary breathed.

"We're under the water tower. Look." Joe pointed at a fat orange pipe that came down from the ceiling; it was surrounded by walkways and ladders and added bits of frame. You could just see the bottom of one of the water storage tanks. Now, though, all of the cables looked more like… spiderwebs.

Joe swallowed, focusing on the bodies. Trying not to panic. He saw one man in blue overalls, arms stuck to his sides; another with skin as pale as death. "She's gotta be here," he told himself. "She's gotta be here."

_She has to._

Then, through the mass of machinery, there was a noise – an echoing _clang_ – and a brown-grey blur dropped into view on the far side of the chamber. Joe twitched. Cary gasped.

The creature emitted a low, alien growl.

Joe and Cary watched, terrified, huddled behind an outcropping while the huge monster lumbered across the cave. It stopped in front of something and hunched over, its back to the boys; still hard to see its full shape. But its leathery legs were splayed wide across the ground and it was moving a little, almost like it was… chewing.

_Slop. Crunch-crunch. Slop._

While they watched, the creature turned. In one hand it was holding a bloody human leg.

"It's eating a _person_!" Cary hissed.

_Crunch crunch. Slop._

They probably would've screamed if they didn't need to stay quiet. It was one thing to imagine in your head at night, and another completely to actually see it – to see half of someone's _body_ clutched in its arms. To hear to crunch of bone beneath alien teeth.

Suddenly, the creature growled again. It stopped eating and reared up for a moment, as if it was listening.

Then it galloped away into the nearest tunnel, metal rattling in its path. The thump of its footsteps gradually faded into the distance. Joe followed the creature with his eyes and saw—

 _Alice._ Hanging by her feet amongst the other bodies and cables. Arms limp, eyes closed. Her distinctive blonde fell in a wave around her ears.

"She's here!" Joe whispered. His heart leapt.

"Oh my god, I see her."

Instantly, all that resolve came rushing back. Just seeing her, knowing that she was here, so close – it made everything worth it. The bus, the town, the tunnels. Everything. He stared, making sure that she wouldn't disappear again. _All we need to do is save her._ At least the creature was gone, for the moment…

Then Joe had an idea. "Okay. We're gonna use your firecrackers," he murmured.

"I don't – I don't think that's gonna hurt him, Joe," Cary whispered back.

"There's other tunnels."

"So?"

"So I need you to make noise – right here, in two minutes. Make it loud, and make it _last._ Gimme some sparklers."

Cary looked like he was about to lose it. Still, he took off his bag and pulled out a whole box of them. "…Why? What're you gonna do?"

"Just make sure you're gone when it blows. You _can't_ be here," Joe said firmly. "You gotta run." He grabbed the sparklers, leapt up and started jogging back down the passage. Cary kept staring at the cave for a second before he noticed his friend was leaving.

"Where are you _going_?" he hissed.

But Joe was already gone, his blue jacket disappearing into the darkness.

* * *

Joe ran along the tunnel, past the grooved, shadowy walls. A single sparkler lit the way ahead. Electric whirrs from the alien device echoed all around him. He was looking for a way back into the creature's massive cave but the tunnels all looked the same: identical arteries, winding through the earth. He thought this passage was winding in the right direction though and the machine seemed to be getting louder, increasing in pitch.

Then, finally, he emerged into another intersection – three big shafts meeting in a Y-shape. He stopped, held the sparkler high… and quickly turned down the right-hand path, hoping it was the right one. _We're coming, Alice. I promise._

* * *

Cary pulled a bundle of firecrackers from his bag and arranged them on the ground before him. Then another firecracker, and some cherry bombs, and some party poppers, and some M-80s, until he had an amazing array of possibly-illegal explosives laid out on the dirt. Metres of fuses were tangled round his feet and he unwrapped them fast as he could, hands fumbling as he chucked everything into an insane line of gunpowder. _Chain reaction, that's what I need. Need to get a chain reaction. Make it loud and make it LAST—_

There was a loud clanging noise from the cavern, the sound of cables bending and Cary instantly felt dread in his heart. The monster was back. It was carrying something else this time, a boat engine or something and it started fixing it to another part of its machine. The creature was _huge;_ it had to be twenty feet tall. He couldn't even tell how many arms it had. That was bad.

He shrank away, making sure he was out of its view. Cary had never been more afraid in his life.

But he kept working. Because Alice needed him, hanging in the stillness bare metres from the monster. And Joe needed him too.

…Joe, who'd just arrived on the other end of the cave. The sparkler died just as he rounded the last bend and reached the opening of the tunnel. He crept forwards.

And he stopped in his tracks when he realised the creature had returned. He could see its legs through a gap in the machinery, could see its arms doing something to the metal. Alice's lifeless body was suspended in the air next to it.

The creature walked off, out of view. Joe crouched down with bated breath. _Come on, Cary. Come on._

* * *

Wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. Cary kicked the last charge into place and took out his silver lighter. He clutched it to his chest, spun the wheel. _Click._

No spark.

He tried again. _Click. Click._

* * *

From the opposite side of the chamber, Joe watched his friend struggle with the lighter. He heard the alien growl somewhere and looked around worriedly – Cary was clearly visible in the tunnel, half-standing and ready to run.

"Come on Cary," he whispered. "Come on, come on, come on—"

* * *

 _Click click. Click. Click. Click._ He kept trying, frantically, desperately but the damn thing just wouldn't _light!_ _Click!_

"Dammit!" Cary shook the lighter up and down, ready to cry at the injustice of it all. _Click—_

* * *

The alien finished whatever it was doing and made its way back to the hanging bodies. Back to Alice. Joe watched as the creature stopped before of its prey. It regarded them for a moment with hard, insect-like eyes.

Then it took Alice in one gigantic hand.

His heart nearly stopped. The creature pulled her down from the ceiling, almost delicately, and started moving her, moving her to the spot where it had been eating the other body and all Joe could do was watch, crouched there in the mouth of the tunnel.

* * *

 _Click. Click!_ Cary tried the lighter again and again, again and again and one last time—

_Click-fftth!_

Somehow, finally, it lit – a single, tiny flame. Cary cupped the lighter in his hands and stared into the fire, face bathed in its dancing yellow glow.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Then he snatched up the fuse and lit it and picked up his backpack and _bolted_. Sparks raced along the fuse while Cary sprinted away. They came closer and closer to the ragged circle of firecrackers, hissing against the dirt, and just when Cary disappeared round the corner…

…they touched.

 _BANG!_ The air seemed to scream as a dozen explosives went off in unison, white-hot flames erupting in the dark and showering the dirt with fire. The tunnel was filled with multi-coloured light and sharp _cracks!_ almost painfully loud.

The creature instantly jerked towards the sound. It called out hoarsely, half-curious, half-angry – then it laid Alice gently down on the ground and started galloping towards the disturbance. The ground shook. It gave another roar when it reached the tunnel, this one almost uncertain. Joe could still hear the firecrackers going off, flashing in the darkness. _BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!_ The creature leapt past the crackling explosives and into the smoke-filled passageway, waiting for a moment, looking for the source of the intrusion.

Then it charged off into the gloom. One last, echoing roar… and it was gone.

Hopefully Cary was long gone too.

No time to worry about that though. Joe burst out of cover, dodged past a couple of truck tires and engine parts, sprinted over to where Alice lay in the dirt. He knelt down next to her and grabbed her shoulders.

"Alice. Alice. Please, we have to go. Come on."

She didn't move – just lay there limply, eyes closed. Joe shook her again, whispering as loud as he dared. "Alice! _Alice!_ Please, wake up." Still no movement. He glanced nervously at the tunnels, expecting the monster to return any second. "Alice, wehavetogo _come on—"_

She had to be unconscious. Joe refused to imagine anything worse. He raised his hand uncertainly, looking at her pale, cold face; paused for a second, then slapped her HARD. _Whack!_

And Alice took a sharp breath.

* * *

"What happened?" Louis asked. "What the hell _happened_ here?"

Jack didn't reply. He gazed out the window at the craters in the street, the houses on fire, the ash filling the sky and didn't have an answer. They drove past a bullet-scarred armoured personnel carrier, so big he had to swerve around it. One of the shops across the street had its roof torn off, the rest of it half in flames. It looked like a warzone or something, like there had been a battle. _But a battle with what?_

Their destination appeared at the bottom of the hill and Jack carefully steered the jeep towards it. The Lillian Middle School appeared relatively unharmed (apart from some burnt grass and a couple of broken windows) – but the parking lot out front was _packed_ with military vehicles. Soldiers swarmed around trucks and APCs, even a tank. A few men were injured and being treated under a first-aid tent. Jack brought the jeep to a stop across from the school entrance and Louis peered up at the military outpost, half curious, half afraid.

"What are we doing here?"

"Rosko said that Joe and the boys were picked up near the school," Jack muttered. "And I'm gonna guess they were here lookin' for your daughter. One of their friends – Preston, don't know if you know him—"

Hidden in the back, Preston almost jumped.

"—showed me… well, you wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"I think I would, Jack," Louis replied faintly. "I saw it. When it took my daughter."

Jack grimaced. "…Yeah. Well. Preston mentioned one of the teachers at the school, Woodward, his name is. Said he had something to do with it. That's probably why they came here."

Jack glanced at the school again; it didn't seem like the safest place for two civilian fugitives (or a bunch of kids). He leaned over and opened the jeep's glove compartment, pulled out the 9mm pistol inside. Checked the ammo quickly.

"You want this?"

Louis shook his head. "You're better with it."

"Okay, then let's go. I'm done sneaking around."

They got out of the jeep, and started walking towards the school gates.

* * *

Preston heard the doors shut; saw the Deputy and Mr Dainard walk away. After a brief moment of deliberation – which involved about twenty different conflicting feelings flying around his head at once, most of them scary and bad – he decided that this was as good a time as any to start being a hero.

Just thinking about the word made him laugh. Regardless, he took a deep breath and picked up the video camera, then untied the jeep's canvas flap and stealthily jumped out onto the grass.

Immediately he was assaulted by the thick smell of burning. Ash floated in the air, mixing with the orange glow on the horizon. Distant gunshots echoed across the hills. Preston flinched, glanced around the side of the jeep and saw the two adults walking through the gates of the school. He waited until they were almost out of sight – then half-crouched, half-ran up to a pillar in the fence and pressed himself up against it.

Preston looked down at the camera in his hands. It looked pretty simple. Just a different version of Charles', really. He checked the filters and the lenses and focused it on the ground in front of him.

Then he pulled the trigger, and started filming.

* * *

As soon as Jack and Louis walked through the gates they were stopped by a flustered-looking army captain. He ran out from under the nearest tent, waving his arms at Louis.

"Hey! Stop! No civilians!"

"He's with me!" Jack yelled back.

"Doesn't matter! You can't be here, this area's off-limits!" The soldier stopped in front of them just as another damaged truck drove past. He looked almost shellshocked; his uniform was blackened and dirty and his pale skin was covered in sweat. A semi-auto rifle hung across his back. Jack decided to make the first move. "Name and rank, soldier?"

"Captain Scott Rhodes." The captain frowned. "What's yours?"

"Staff Sergeant… Jimmy Wallace." He glanced down at his shirt to make sure he'd got it right.

"Well, Staff Sergeant, as I'm sure you can see we've just been through hell around here. Every weapon in the division just misfired at the same time. Never seen anything like it. We've got soldiers injured, most of our ammo gone, it's a big god-damned mess."

"I'm… sorry to hear that. Listen, I've got orders from Colonel Nelec—"

"Nelec's dead."

"What?"

"He's dead," Rhodes said matter-of-factly. "The bus they were using had contact with the cargo about an hour ago. Haven't heard from that whole squad since. They're either dead, or they can't talk for some reason. And since I can't confirm _your_ orders with Nelec, my orders still stand. No civilians in the school. We're doing cleanup."

"Okay." Jack took a deep breath, and tried not to think of Joe. _'They're either dead, or they can't talk for some reason.' '…dead…'_ He sensed Louis standing silently behind him; heard a soldier scream from the medical tent. "I can see things have been bad around here. But I need to get into the school."

"You can come through." The captain nodded at Louis. " _He_ can't."

"He stays with me."

"Then I'm sorry, but I can't let you in."

"Why?" Jack asked.

"I can't say. It's a contamination issue."

"Contamination? But—"

"Orders, Staff Sergeant."

"To _hell_ with your orders!" Jack felt a flash of anger. Suddenly his hand was touching the pistol on his belt and before he knew it he had the safety off and—

"STOP RIGHT THERE!" Rhodes shouted. He was holding his rifle, still pointed at the ground but ready to aim and shoot at any moment.

Jack froze, the pistol half-way in the air.

"I don't know what you're doing, Staff Sergeant, but I think you should reconsider."

"I'm… looking for someone," Jack murmured.

Captain Rhodes cocked his head. Jack felt his heart pounding in his chest. He wondered what would happen if their guns crept up another inch; a few hours on the police range was probably no match for military training. _I… we came all this way. We're so close. We can't give up now._ Luckily, the other soldiers were too busy to notice the confrontation.

* * *

Preston wasn't, though. He stared wide-eyed at the two men facing off in the middle of the parking lot. Jack and the army captain both had their guns half-drawn. They were talking about something, a mixture of anger and confusion. He imagined hearing a sudden _bang_ and seeing one of them collapse with blood.

The camera was still whirring in his hands, taking in the soldiers and the tanks and the sky full of stars. It was like something out of a movie. Except this was real... and that was Joe's _dad_ out there. Preston wondered if he should help. If he even _could_.

Then he saw Mr Dainard step forwards.

* * *

The two men stood at the entrance of Lillian Middle School.

"Don't move!" Rhodes barked suddenly.

"I'm not," Jack growled. _But I'm thinking about it._

"Not you. Him."

Suddenly, Jack felt a hand on his shoulder. There was a quiet strength in his touch.

"You're no good to them dead, Jack," Louis said calmly.

The words cut like a knife through his mind. Jack tensed for a second... then breathed out. "I know." _I know._ Slowly, coolly, he put the gun away. The moment passed. Rhodes watched him carefully for a second; then did the same. A few of the other soldiers were now glancing at them curiously. Louis stepped back.

Frosty silence.

"Who's in command?" Jack asked eventually.

"I am," Rhodes shot back.

"Not here. I mean who's commanding the whole area, now that Nelec's dead." _The bastard._

"That would be Major Abrams. He's camped down on the main street."

"Then I might just go and pay him a visit."

"You do that, Staff Sergeant. As long as you get the hell of here." Rhodes paused. "Who's your friend, by the way? The civilian."

"Can't tell you. Orders." Jack shrugged and exchanged a glance with Louis. Then he sighed, and took one last look at the school. Last time he'd been here it had been filled with laughing, smiling kids. Now it was just… dead. He shook his head and started walking back to the jeep, Louis in tow.

"Staff Sergeant?" Rhodes called out.

Jack stopped. "What?"

"I wouldn't go pulling any guns on the Major, if I was you."

"Well, that depends if he's hurt our kids or not," he said quietly. And with that he turned and left the soldiers behind, surrounded by their ash and dust.

* * *

Preston ducked as another jeep drove past. He was creeping around the parking lot fence, about half-way around it now, aiming for the thin alleyway that ran around the edge of the school. The Deputy and Mr Dainard might not be able to get in, but Preston was pretty sure that he could – no one knew a school better than the kids who went there, after all.

Of course, avoiding the soldiers was another thing entirely. But even if he got caught… they wouldn't hurt a kid, right? They were the army. They were meant to be _protecting_ him.

Preston looked down at the camera, and thought he'd better do an introduction. Hopefully the microphone would pick up his voice. He crouched down behind a bush for a moment and turned the lens towards his face. "My name is Preston Mills," he said quickly. "I am and eighth-grade student at Lillian Middle School, which you can see over there" – he pointed the camera over the fence – "and I am about to break in because I'm looking for my friends. They were searching for something inside but I think they might have been captured. It's crazy. Super crazy. And the military is here, and there's fires everywhere, and stuff is happening… Sorry, that was a really bad introduction. I don't know. I'll have to edit that out."

Preston coughed and looked back across the shadowy grass. The Deputy and Mr Dainard were walking away from the school, back to their parked army jeep.

"Crap! Crap!" Preston muttered, shocked. "Sorry, edit that too." But what were they doing? Maybe the soldiers had told them to go somewhere else? At least no one had been shot, but Preston abruptly realised that he had absolutely _no_ chance of getting back to the jeep in time. No chance of not being seen. He thought about jumping up and waving, but…

With a slow, sinking feeling, Preston hid and watched as the two men climbed into the jeep. The doors shut, the engine started.

And the jeep drove off down the street. Twenty seconds later, it disappeared around the nearest corner and Mr Lamb and Mr Dainard were gone. Heading towards the centre of town. Leaving him behind, alone.

Preston stared for a moment. Then he turned back to the school and scanned it, speculating.

Maybe being stuck here was a good thing. Because Preston was terrible at making decisions, and it appeared that a very big one had just been made for him. He turned the camera up to his face once more. "So as I was saying, my name is Preston Mills," he said quietly. "I'm about to break into my school to uncover a thirty-year-old military conspiracy… and then I'm going to find my friends."

* * *

Deep beneath the water tower, Alice's eyes snapped open. She looked up, dazed.

"…where are we?..."

"You're alive! You're alive." Joe could barely believe it. "You're alive!" He almost laughed in relief, smiling so wide it hurt. "Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

Alice sat up, catching her breath. She looked around in confusion and amazement and saw Joe leaning over her – the only familiar thing in the whole cavern. "What is this?" she murmured. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just doing the best I can to save you," he said instantly.

When Alice looked into Joe's dark eyes, she knew he meant it with all his heart. So she grabbed him, and hugged him tight.

They held each other in the middle of the cavern. Joe was kind of shocked at first, but after a moment he just closed his eyes. The whirr of the machine faded away until there was only her warmth, her comfort. The touch of her hair upon his cheek. The past few days, all they'd been through to get here – it didn't matter. All he knew was that she was the same old Alice. Strong, and resolute, and beautiful. And that was enough.

"…How'd you know?" Alice whispered.

"Your dad. He told me. He was worried. And flipping out."

Alice frowned, and stepped back. "Really?"

"Yeah. But – we have to move." Joe suddenly remembered where they were. They stared at each other for another brief, intense moment—

—until a voice said, "Excuse me?"

They whirled around.

And saw a young woman sitting on the dirt a few metres away. She looked like she'd just woken up in more ways than one – muddy dressing gown, curlers in her hair, and utterly, _utterly_ disoriented. She peered at the two of them like she was still in a dream.

"...Where are we?" she asked.

* * *

The woman's name was Tina, and she'd recently turned 24. They found this out (and many other things) because she just wouldn't stop _talking_. "I left my bag I the car, and then I went out to the car to get my bag, and then when I went out the car I heard a noise, a weird clicking sound, so I looked around however no one was there and so I got my bag from the car, and when I closed the door again I heard…" She was speaking quickly, monotone, just saying words to avoid the reality of being trapped in an alien rabbit warren.

For Joe and Alice, though, survival instinct had kicked in. And Alice's memory of the past twenty-four hours had come flooding back.

"It's been locked up for years – experimented on," she explained earnestly. "It's terrified and exhausted and hungry and it just wants to go home. When it touched me, I _knew_."

Joe nodded, remembering Woodward's tapes. "Yeah. I need you to help me get the Sheriff down." They walked to where Sheriff Pruitt was still hanging from the cavern roof; grabbed his body with their hands, grimaced at the feel of the leathery cocoon. There was a loud, ugly crackling sound as they pulled him forwards—

* * *

The creature growled with pure harsh _fury_ as it stormed through the shadowy tunnels. Its legs pummelled the earth, scattering rock to the wind, eyes searching the pitch black darkness for the trespasser that had invaded its home.

Cary could hear it. Not right behind him, but it was still close. Far too close. He sprinted as fast as he could through the gloom, hyperventilating. Checking over his shoulder after every bend. _Oh my god I'm gonna die it's gonna eat me—_ The tunnels twisted and turned, endless, and every time he thought he'd reached the exit it was just another featureless cave. _Where's the rope where's the rope where's the damn ROPE!_

Somewhere behind him, the creature stopped. It hunched down on its six limbs for a second; sniffed the air, and gave a short, barking cough.

Then it turned, and started galloping the other way.

* * *

The sheriff had only just been woken, but twenty years in command was a hard habit to break and he immediately took charge of the situation.

That might have been a bad thing, though. Pruitt raised his police torch and peered around the cave in confusion, tried to summon up a hint of confidence. It was hard. His plump face was dirt-smeared and drawn and wisps of grey hair stuck out in every direction, completely out of place in the alien hive. "Follow me this way! I'll get us out of here," he said hoarsely.

Joe pointed over his shoulder. "Sheriff, we came that way—"

"Don't argue with me! Just _follow_ me."

"Come on kids, let's go with the Sheriff," Tina added.

There wasn't much choice, so they did. Joe, however, didn't feel confident as they picked their way through the maze of alien components. The machine seemed to be powering up even more. Sparks and lights flickered overhead and fans spun faster and faster. The ragtag group of survivors skirted around cables and fuel tanks and entered a small passage on the other side of the cave, accompanied by the constant rising siren sound. _WoooooOOOOOoooOOO!…_

They ran through the tunnel, Sheriff Pruitt in the lead, Tina next, Alice and Joe bringing up the rear. The Sheriff's torch cast a pale circle of light upon the walls, bouncing as they moved, illuminating cracks and ridges and dark black shafts. They reached an intersection with three ways to go; the Sheriff barely paused before announcing, "This way."

"Sheriff, I really think we're going the wrong way—" Joe said hesitantly.

"We'll talk about it when we get up top!"

They'd just started running into the new tunnel when out of nowhere a voice called his name.

"Joe!"

They stopped. And then _Cary_ came skidding around the corner behind them. He ran up full of panic and relief, so fast they nearly collided.

"I thought I told you to get out!" Joe hissed. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought this _was_ the way out!" he retorted. "I tried, okay? I just—" Then he saw Alice standing there, a little surprised. "Hey Alice, welcome back."

"Hey! Kids!" The Sheriff interrupted their little reunion. "Come on, we gotta get out of here—"

_THUMP!_

A massive hand surged out of the darkness and snatched the Sheriff away. He shrieked as it lifted him high like a toy, squeezed hard and instantly he was dead, and there was a roar of triumph mixed their screams of shock and terror and IT was right there – _it –_ and the four of them turned and _bolted_. Sprinting through the tunnels in a blur of panic, everyone screaming, the creature leaping from the shadows and charging after them.

"Guys, hurry!" Cary yelled. "Come on, GO!" He looked over his shoulder but couldn't see anything, kept running as fast as he could, around corners, through the tunnels, not caring which way – just away from the beast. Tina was a couple of metres back, then Alice, screaming as well and suddenly there was a huge reverberating howl and the creature was right behind – it lashed out and grabbed Tina with its claws, so close that Alice felt the air _shake_ – and the woman was dragged away into the gloom.

"AAAAAAAHH!"

There was a sickening crunch as she hit the wall. The creature crouched down and _roared_ in fury, mouthparts glistening in the faintest hint of starlight. They whirled around and saw it—

_ROOOooooOOOOOO!_

—and raced onwards, skidding around the next cavern. Three kids left, panting and winded and filled with terror, the awful shadow somewhere behind ready to snatch them away any second. "She's gone! It took her! I don't wanna be next!" Cary babbled. The walls blurred past, barely visible in the gloom, but then the tunnel seemed to end, closer and closer and Joe couldn't see a…

He slid to a stop and stared at the blank stone wall in front of him.

Dead end.

No more tunnels, no more options. The others stopped next to him, out of breath. Shocked. Joe thought he should feel disappointed but he was almost too exhausted to think anymore. _Come on… come on, this can't be it._ After a moment they turned around, looking for a way out but ahead there was only horrifying blackness.

So they huddled together in the middle of the cave. Waiting. Staring into the dark. No one said a word and it was curiously silent for a long, endless moment.

Three long black fingers appeared around the edge of the tunnel.

"AAH!" Cary and Alice screamed and backed away, pressing up against the wall. Then a foot appeared, and another foot, and an armoured, muscular body… and there it was.

The alien.

It was so huge, and yet so graceful at the same time. At least fifteen, maybe twenty feet tall, with mottled grey skin that had a wet, rubbery appearance. It had two tree-trunk-thick legs which bent back at the knee, similar to a dog's or cat's, but the way it moved was weird, uncomfortable, almost spidery – four arms sprouted from its shoulders and it used the two upper arms to walk as well, while the others were held in the air, ready to strike. Each limb ended in five long, stilted fingers that were oddly human; its torso was just a mass of muscles and tendons and webbed flaps of skin. Bony ridges and plates covered most of its body. On top of its chest it had a thick, concave neck, and on top of that…

The creature's head. It was almost like someone had cut out and flattened a skull; sort of triangular, smooth, but with recognisable features. There was a pointed chin, a thin mouth, a series of flaring black holes for nostrils. Two eyes, just featureless grey orbs. Two bony flaps that looked like a mixture of ears and horns. Whitish stripes of pigment ran down its 'face'.

The alien growled softly. A low, menacing rattle, like a tiger. It considered them for a moment.

Then started walking towards them.

Echoing footsteps. Joe watched it approach. He was scared. So, so scared. He couldn't even thinkhe was shivering so much, and all he could do was stand and stare and wonder which insane planet something like _it_ would call home. Behind him Alice and Cary shrank back, clutching each other in the darkness as the beast came closer. Closer. Closer. Distantly, Joe realised that he was the only thing standing between the creature and his friends – and that it was _right there_ , bare metres away.

Harsh alien eyes. The rattle of its breath.

Joe imagined them dying here, alone beneath the dark, forgotten earth. And he knew he had to stop it. He _had_ to. He swallowed, shivered, swallowed again and—

"GO!" he shouted at it, with as much strength as he could muster. "YOU DON'T WANNA BE HERE, GO!"

"Joe, what are you _doing_?" Cary hissed.

The alien stopped before him. It clicked curiously, as if he was an insect about to be crushed. Then, slowly, it reared up on its hind legs, absolutely _towering_ over him. Its four arms dangled in the air.

Joe stood his ground. Gazed up unflinchingly. Then, suppressing every impulse that was _screaming_ at him to run – he took a few steps forward.

Cary flinched, nearly crying. "Ally, what the _hell_ is he doing?"

Alice didn't reply. Just watched fearfully.

But as Joe stood at the alien's feet, he remembered something that she'd said just minutes earlier. _"It's terrified and hungry, and it just wants to go home."_ The scientists had tried to trap it and failed. The military had tried to kill it and failed. The creature seemed to be intelligent though and maybe… maybe it could understand. Maybe it _would_ understand. Maybe the entire country had been so busy being scared of it that nobody… nobody had just tried to _talk_. So Joe said the first thing that came into his head.

"We understand!" he shouted desperately. "We know how hard it's been! BUT NOT EVERYONE'S HORRIBLE!"

"Joe, shut up, it's gonna kill you!" Cary whispered.

The alien's eyes glimmered in the shadows. But then… it breathed out, and tilted its head. Like it was listening. Joe kept staring at it, willing himself to go on. "You're gonna be okay n—"

And then it grabbed him. Alice and Cary SCREAMED as one slimy hand reached down and wrapped around his chest.

"NOOOO!"

"JOE!"

The alien squeezed – and _lifted_ him, up, up, far above the ground until he was almost level with its head. Joe went limp in shock, terrified, legs dangling in the air. The creature stepped forwards, leaned down a little…

…and Joe was suddenly about three feet from its face.

He shivered. He took a quick breath, and another, and felt his chest press against the alien's skin. Its grasp was firm, but gentle. His friends were still shouting far below.

"No!"

"Let him down!"

The alien sniffed. A gust of warm air swirled around his face, ruffled his hair. Breath from another world. Up here, up close, you could see the dots and scars that made up its skin; the wet black openings of its nose, the slight upwards turn of its three-part mouth. The smooth dome of its forehead. If he reached out, he'd almost be able to touch it… and suddenly, like Alice, he _knew_. He knew what it had been through, why it had arrived here, who it was running from. Where it wanted to go.

Joe gazed into the creature's glossy black eyes. It could kill him at any moment. But in that fear, he found—

Truth.

Joe looked away into the darkness for a moment, searching for the right words.

Another breath. And finally he whispered, shakily:

"I know bad things happen… Bad things happen."

A breath.

And the creature… turned. It almost seemed to buzz, softly. Below, Alice and Cary watched, tense.

"But you're gonna be okay."

A breath. Joe stared into the alien's eyes.

The alien stared back.

"I know bad things happen…" he whispered.

A breath.

"…but you can still live."

A breath.

"You can still _live._ "


	19. The Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter might be a little unexpected. Basically, I had a weird idea, this is the result, and now I should probably just be quiet and let you read it.

Warm, rubbery skin. Black alien eyes. And… the crash of thunder.

Joe blinked. It was like he's been somewhere else for a second – a flash of lightning and a dark house. An old memory. But no, he was still in the cavern, dangling metres above the ground. He didn't move and just let himself hang limply, trusting the creature, pleading for it to understand. It hadn't killed him. Yet. It was just... staring. Alice and Cary were still huddling in the cave below. _You can still live._

Thunder, louder.

The house rattled.

Joe blinked again, confused. The cave reappeared. And suddenly—

A _rush._ A waterfall of thoughts and emotions and indescribably alien sensations, flowing around and into his brain, digging through, swirling like a flood through a forest. Memories, merging, leaping through time. Alien eyes. His skin buzzed. He was still in the cave, but far away at the same time. Distant, far away, and together with _it_ —

* * *

The crash of thunder.

It was loud. So loud that it seemed almost _infinite_ , rattling the windows, shaking the house to its bones. Joe curled up in his bed and stuck his fingers in his ears. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the storm… but you couldn't. Not when you were eight years old, and still a little afraid of the dark.

Lightning flashed, harsh and bright, silhouetting the wintry skeletons of trees in the garden outside. Joe twitched and started counting. _One, two—_

_BOOOOM!_

The storm was right overhead; heavy rain drummed on the roof and poured from overflowing gutters. The power was out too. Joe risked a peek over his blankets and couldn't see _anything_ – just pitch black darkness. Logically, he knew that he was still in his room, safe in his bed, and that there weren't any monsters hiding in the gloom. He knew that he was too old for monsters.

But logic always fled once the sun went down. He lay back down again, heart beating fast. _You're not gonna go running to mom and dad like a crybaby. You're not a little kid anymore. You're brave._

Lightning.

_One, t—_

_BOOOOM!_

Something fell from a shelf in the kitchen and hit the tiles with a sharp _crack_. Joe jumped. He couldn't go to sleep now, not when the night was so dark - so he lay there, staring at the ceiling, clutching the sheets with sweaty fingers. Right at that moment, it seemed like a particularly bad idea to have borrowed that horror movie magazine from Charles.

Lightning.

Rain.

Shadows.

He lay there for a moment longer. Then, suddenly, a slit of yellow light appeared under his bedroom door. Joe turned towards it; heard footsteps creaking on the floorboards outside. The doorhandle started turning—

He quickly rolled over and pretended to be asleep.

The door opened quietly. A shadowy presence picked its way across the carpet and stopped beside his bed, dim torch in hand. Joe could see its faint red glow behind his eyelids.

"You don't have to pretend, Joe," his mother said softly. "It's all right."

When Joe opened his eyes, he saw her standing over him. She looked like an angel in her crumpled nightgown – smiling tiredly, long black hair lying messily around her shoulders. "How long have you been up?"

"Just a little while…" he answered quietly. "Is dad awake?"

"Yes, he's awake. Just like you."

Lightning. Thunder. The sky roiled and rumbled, on and on and _on_ , and just when it felt like it would never end – the thunder faded away into the night.

"It's loud, huh?" his mom said, pointing at the ceiling.

Joe nodded, embarrassed. "Yeah."

"It's okay to be scared. Don't worry."

"I wasn't scared."

"Sure you weren't." Elizabeth smiled again as wind howled across the hills. She laid the torch down on his desk, a warm, safe glow; then knelt down on the ground before him, looking straight into his eyes. Her gaze was comforting. "You know what else is loud?" she asked.

Joe shook his head.

"Fireworks!"

"That's… that's _different._ "

"No it isn't - not really." His mother turned away for a moment, searching for an old memory. "Thunder… it's caused by the shock the lightning makes in the air. The electricity heats everything up, like an explosion. Like fireworks do. You know Mrs. Easton at school?"

"She was my grade three teacher."

"Oh! She _was_ , wasn't she. Well, she taught me that, many years ago."

"She's _really_ old."

"Ha. She certainly is." Elizabeth leant in close, and Joe realised that he'd nearly forgotten all about the thunder and the darkness. "And fireworks – they make us happy, don't they? They're bright, and colourful. Red. Yellow. Green. On New Year's Eve, or Fourth of July, when all the family's together, celebrating…"

He nodded.

"So what's so scary about thunder? It's just the same. It's just a sound."

Rain thrummed on the windows as Joe tried to think. His mother watched him, smiling gently. The torch flickered.

"It's not the sound that's scary," he said eventually, almost too soft to hear.

"Hm?"

"It's... it's the lightning."

"Why?"

Joe opened his mouth to say something - but then just shook his head. His mom frowned.

"Hey, you can tell me. I'm sure it's a _very_ good reason. And if it isn't - then you won't have to be scared anymore."

As if on cue, the sky flashed angrily. Bright white streaks tore through the midnight clouds, splitting the storm in half. Joe shivered with anticipation. _One, two, three—_

* * *

CRASH!

The floor of the ship slewed wildly to the left. The inner walls failed for a moment, flickering and dissolving from shining silver into a sea of rough white cubes as the ship's systems tried to deal with the sudden impact. Sharp flares of blue plasma strobed from the ceiling and filled the pilot's chamber with light.

_/Impact read on portside nacelle spaceborne debris impact systems damaged systems recalibrating_

The ship was star-shaped, curved and silver, with five engines flaring blue at the end of long, tapered fingers. From the outside, you would've seen a faint metallic blur unexpectedly _rip_ into its hull – tearing a hole several metres wide, bursting out the other side an instant later at 15,000 kilometres an hour. Silver splinters exploded into space, twinkling in the distant sunlight… twinkling against the blue-green planet that spun far below.

_/The Starfarer is damaged the Starfarer requests direction_

There was only one thing alive on the silvery ship – a huge, dark grey figure that lay in the central chamber. White and purple tendrils of light connected its body to the cavernous walls. They were faint, nearly insubstantial, and flickers of energy ran up and down them furiously fast.

_/The Starfarer must reconfigure. The Starfarer must repair. Quickly quickly the atmosphere is close (background) disappointment this race does not keep their spacelanes clear of debris they must be primitives stupid primitives_

The pilot had a name, of sorts. It wasn't a human name; you couldn't really translate it without connecting to a thousand years of alien knowledge and ancestry and emotion.

But, roughly, it sounded a bit like 'Cooper.'

 _CRASH!_ Another piece of debris speared into the ship's midsection, jolting it violently sideways. (Years later, someone would eventually figure out that it had been the remnants of an old Russian satellite.) One of the engine spires was torn clean off and fell away, melting into a cloud of white cubes. Air and fire screamed from the opening. The ship rolled again. Hard black eyes flicked open for a second, briefly panicked.

_/Why did sensors not warn of impact (question) damaged must be damaged_

_/ _Relief disappointment fear._ Pilgrimage; t_ _he pilgrimage will be unfulfilled. Surface approaches fast (immediate) too fast uncontrolled_

The ship suddenly entered the planet's outer atmosphere. This was dangerous; pieces of its hull were still whizzing around outside, trying to rearrange themselves, close the holes, repair vital systems. It wasn't happening in time. The two impacts had been too big, too fast and the ship was speeding up as it was drawn into the planet's gravity well. Re-entry fire began to bloom around its nose.

_/The pilgrimage will be unfulfilled (thoughts) (course of action) (important) the Homesphere must be notified. Must must must try and control descent_

_/Notify first_

The alien leapt up from his position in the pilot's chamber and lumbered across to a spinning circular ring on the far wall. The ship shuddered wildly. Soundless alarms screamed from every corner. He reached for the ring and light glowed around his fingers and the ring span, faster and faster and even faster and Cooper pulled every bit of data he could from the ship's remaining sensors and compressed it into a tiny, hardened package. Then he sealed the package with his memories and sent it flying across the stars.

The Homesphere was very far away. But the package would get there, in time.

_/Notify done (very important) now must control descent_

The ship was flying incredibly fast. Parts of it were beginning to crack and splinter off, its silvery exterior becoming warped and damaged and grey. Shields were struggling to hold together and the engines were unresponsive. The surface of the planet was bare kilometres away. Cooper would have considered it was quite beautiful – hazy and blue, dusted with clouds, dotted with green forests and wrinkled, jagged mountains – had he not been so busy trying to stay alive.

This was not a situation he'd found himself in before.

_/Secondary thrusters operational (correction) somewhat operational (question?) perhaps can try to skim atmosphere_

_/Skim_

_/Skim_

_/No, too fast, power lacking_

From ground level barely kilometres below, you would've seen a silver sapphire-shaped blur _zoom_ through the upper atmosphere, quicker than a lightning bolt. Pinpricks of light flared on its surface as it tried to propel itself upward.

_/The Starfarer can jump away if all repairs are focused on core. Can jump away, far away to gas giant planet will be safe there and able to think/wait/repair_

_/No jump is too dangerous_

_/Cannot risk. D_ _isruption to planet's gravity well may affect/destroy indigenous species (moral consideration) unfortunate_

_/Other options?_

All around the ship, thousands of white cubes stopped in mid-air for a moment, frozen with indecision. Deep within, impact protection systems began to come to life (the ones that still worked anyway). To Cooper's question there was unfortunately no answer; but this was expected, as he was the only member of his species within several hundred light years.

_/No options_

_/The pilgrimage will be unfulfilled_

_/I am… alone_

His eyes flashed open in the smoke-filled chamber as the realisation nearly crushed him. He was alone, really _alone_ \- away from the comforting buzz of the spheres, ready to die on a distant, backwards planet far, far away. Too far away. His breath was cold.

…

_/No, WRONG_

_/Alone but survival not impossible_

_/Perhaps if we survive will not be alone (IMPORTANT)_

Cooper scrambled back to the pilot's station. Perhaps he could reconfigure the shape, jettison mass to form a shield and if he could manoeuvre _just_ enough and keep the fields from failing just a little longer - just a little longer - but the surface of the planet was approaching fast, too fast, he didn't have time to do all that, although every little bit would help and suddenly, brilliantly he had an _idea _—__

Then many things happened at once and there was an incredible sound and a huge concussion and a burst of blue and white and PAIN _—_

* * *

Pain. Joe felt it keenly as he stared at the long, red slice in his finger. Blood trickled down his pale white skin and dripped onto the grass. It hurt.

But at the same time, it didn't. The pain was distant, something you could ignore. He turned his finger over and watched it bleed curiously.

"Oh my gosh! Joe, what happened?" On the other side of the garden _,_ his mom dropped her half-filled washing basket in the grass, shocked. She ran quickly to his side.

"I cut it on the fence."

"Where?"

Joe pointed at a dark red splotch on the metal. One of the panels in the fence had rusted, exposing a sharp edge. Elizabeth took his hand in hers and looked closely at the cut. "Does it hurt?"

"A bit. Not really." Joe tried to put on a brave face, like 9-year-old boys do, but actually his sliced finger was starting to hurt _quite a lot_. "Ow!"

"Oops, sorry. Just – don't move, okay darling, I'll get a bandage from inside. Where's dad?"

"He's getting the ball from across the road!" Joe called out… but Elizabeth was already disappearing up the steps around the front of the house.

It was a hot summer's day in central Ohio, without a hint of a breeze in the muggy air as the sun beat down from above. The whole town was green, but it was a _dry_ sort of green – the kind you get when it hasn't rained for nearly a week. Grass crackled sharply underfoot, insects chirped, trees provided thankful patches of shade. The air smelt of apple blossoms and freshly-dug dirt. All in all, it was a good day to be out, so Joe and his dad were playing baseball in the garden.

Or they had been, at least - until his dad had smacked the ball over the road, over the next house, and into the lane on the other side. (Joe wasn't very good at baseball. He wasn't even sure if he liked it, actually… but it was fun sometimes, and Jack said he should practice if he wanted to get on the school team.)

Blood dripped onto the grass.

Soon, his mom came running back out, a small bandage and a bottle in her hands. She was wearing a simple green dress patterned with flowers - a detail he'd always remember. "I'm going to put some of this on your finger," she said quickly. "It might hurt a bit, okay?"

Joe nodded and looked away. Elizabeth took his hand, wiped the blood off, then rubbed something foul-smelling into the cut. It stung sharply. He winced.

"That's it. Be brave," she said softly. She cleaned the wound again and the bandage went on next, thin and white, wrapping around his finger half-a-dozen times until she cut the cloth with scissors and stuck it down tight. It pressed into his skin with a dull, throbbing ache. Elizabeth stood up and peered at her handiwork. "How is it?"

Joe flexed his finger experimentally. "Better."

"Good. Although next time when you decide to climb a fence, you might want to, you know – check it for edges first." She smiled a sort of playful, warning smile, the same one she used whenever there were ~ _lessons~ to be ~learned~._ "Actually… can I have another look at that bandage?"

"Why?"

"I just want to make sure it'll stick."

Joe held out his hand cautiously as the sun glared down on both of them. Suddenly, Elizabeth grabbed it and planted a big wet kiss on his finger.

"Hey!" Joe pulled away and jumped back, embarrassed. He looked over his shoulder to check if any of the neighbours were watching.

"What's the matter? Scared of a little kiss?"

"I'm _not_ scared!"

"You are _too._ "

"I'm not!"

"Then you won't mind, my dear little Lamb if I just lean over and—"

His mother reached out to grab him and instantly he turned and sprinted away. She just laughed and chased after, running in her green summer dress. Joe looked over his shoulder and saw her closing the gap. He sped up, leading her around the big pine tree, under the old swingset, past the flowerbeds and her discarded washing basket. "I'm catching up!" She was still laughing wildly and suddenly Joe found himself laughing too, panting, gasping for breath and the sound of their happiness rang out over the town, beautiful and clear and pure.

"…Have I missed something?"

Jack Lamb was standing on the sidewalk, gazing at them both with a wry grin on his face. Joe whirled around skidded to a stop so fast he almost slammed into the side of the house. Elizabeth stopped a few metres behind, breathing hard. "I was just teaching Joe the value of… a kiss," she said mysteriously.

"Well, I certainly know the value of those," his father replied, even more mysteriously.

"Jack! You can't say-"

"What?"

"Oh, never _mind_."

"I won't," Jack said. "Now, if I recall correctly, Joe and I were exploring the finer points of batting before you lunatics started runnin' around. Joe, you wanna keep playing?"

Joe shrugged. "Sure." His finger wasn't hurting too much.

"Great, 'cause I think you're finally getting the hang of it too. If you take the ball again—"

"Hey!" Elizabeth interrupted, putting put her hands on her hips. "Wait a second. What about _me_?"

Jack frowned. "What about you?"

"What if I want to play?"

Joe grinned. "Yeah. What if mom wants to play?"

"Well, if mom wants to play then she's welcome to – if she can stand up to the bat of old Deputy Jack."

Elizabeth walked straight up to her husband and snatched the baseball from his open palm. Jack shook his head, smiling to himself and picked the bat from the grass. He took up position at the far end of the yard, Elizabeth standing opposite. Joe smiled up at the sky and smelled the air, and at that moment the day felt perfect.

"Joe, you ready to catch this one?" his mom asked.

"I'm ready to catch _anything_ ," Joe shot back.

"Good. Because here it comes!"

His mother threw the baseball and it was a surprisingly good pitch. The ball was fast, low and straight, but his dad was ready and watching and with a _whoosh_ the bat swung forwards—

_Thwack!_

The ball shot up and Joe watched it soar into the air, into the deep blue sky. It was incredible. No clouds, just a vast sapphire ocean. And the air was so _blue—_

* * *

Blue. That was the colour of the gas giant planet that the Homesphere had always orbited round. A lovely, aquamarine blue, so smooth your eyes could swim in it. The light of the local star reflected from the gas-planet's surface and gave the mountains, craters and chasms of the Homesphere moon an ever-present indigo glow.

Cooper was walking through one of those chasms now. It was a shallow canyon that cut its way across the 'sphere, through a smooth grey plain dotted with methane seas. Along the sides of the canyon, his people stood – hundreds of them, even thousands – ashen muscular shapes that watched and waited in silence.

At the other end of the canyon, his ship was waiting for him. A silver starfish pointing proudly at the sky.

As Cooper walked, his people watched; following his path with their large, glossy eyes. He could feel the buzz of their thoughts all around him as a comforting, electric cloud. / _Pilgrimage (happy) it is good to see another it has been too long /Cooper has always been one of our best the Mother will be proud /We wish for safe and quick return and a fruitful journey /The stars are beautiful are they not? See them far too rarely._

Tunnel entrances loomed in the canyon walls, gaping black holes that led to the caves below the Homesphere's surface. Still more figures were emerging from them now, rearing up on their hind legs to peer over the swaying crowd. Alien calls echoed through the mist. The surface wasn't seen or visited very often; most of their species' lives were spent underground, in the shadows, where it was warm... Where it was safe.

Soon, Cooper reached the end of the canyon. The ship stood tall before him and he gazed upon its brilliant surface.

_/Your ship now._

Something big stepped out of the crowd – a huge, grey-skinned alien, different from all the others. It ( _she)_ was covered in twisting, winding bone growths, with nine slender legs that emerged from her lower thorax. Slithering tentacles curled around her back like an ancient, rippling forest. She looked… old.

_/It is your ship now Cooper'1213 and (warning) you must use it well. Embark upon pilgrimage._

Her thought was piercing and clear as she approached, instantly drowning out every other as it appeared fully-formed in his mind. / _Embark upon pilgrimage. Explore. Experience. Expand. Return. Bring value to us. Uphold our honour. Become new._

/ _Affirmed,_ he replied. A mixture of nervousness and calm.

_/Then Cooper'1213 is ready (wise encouragement) and Cooper'1213 may go. Upon return you will be a child no longer._

Cooper knelt down. The figure stepped forwards, and, gently, she touched him. Her hand slipped across his forehead. Blue-tinted mist swirled above their heads. / _You will be_ my _child no longer. You will be a child of the stars. You will become new. You will evolve. You will become one of us. There are many stars in this universe and they require visiting..._

She stepped back, and he opened his eyes. From the assembled figures there was a reassuring, silent sigh. This was the way things were meant to be. Cooper suddenly felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. All his aches, all his old pains; he couldn't feel them anymore. And in his mind, he felt… _happy_.

This was the way things were meant to be.

_/Now your pilgrimage it will begin._

The Mother stepped back. Eerily, she melted away, into the shadow of the canyon walls. Cooper strode forwards up the ramp of the ship. The walls parted as he reached them, the cubes dissolving to reveal a wide, circular doorway. Beyond it was his new home for the months and years ahead.

Cooper turned in the doorway and gazed back at his assembled people. They watched him as one mind, their thoughts reaching out and giving him encouragement, advice, a whole sea of feeling that he would always treasure – and miss – as he drifted among the stars.

There was one face in particular that he would miss. One that stood out from the others. The face had bright white markings around its nose and forehead, a little like Cooper's own, and that alien face, right now, seemed to have a smile upon it. A sad, proud smile.

_/Now your pilgrimage begins._ _Be safe._

Cooper looked up, through the thick methane clouds, at the giant blue planet and twinkling lights up above.

_/Affirmed._

The door closed. Engines fired. The ship spun smoothly and rose towards the stars.

A sad, proud smile.

* * *

"…I think The Flash would win," Joe said, smiling.

Cary spluttered on his juice. "Oh my _god_ Joe, what are you even saying?"

"What? I think he would—"

"No way. The Silver Surfer's faster - I guarantee it."

Martin rolled his eyes. "You guys are such nerds sometimes."

"Like you can talk, Smartin."

"Don't call me that, Cary."

"Why not Smartin?"

"Because… ugh. Charles, back me up here, would you?"

Charles leaned back and smiled innocently. "I'm staying out of this," he murmured, chewing on a Twizzler. "Besides – I think Superman would kick both their asses."

"No he _wouldn't_ ," Joe said derisively

"Why? Do _you_ know how fast Superman can go?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Because I think he's the fastest. By FAR."

Then Preston looked up for the first time in about three minutes. "So, uh... what the heck are you guys talking about?"

They were sitting in a circle in the middle of the sports oval, on a blustery autumn morning when Joe was ten years old. It was the date of the annual Lillian Elementary sports day, and hundreds of kids were clustered around the multi-coloured pavilions set up on the emerald grass. The painted white outline of the running track followed the curve of the oval, past smooth sand pits for the jumping events and marked-off areas for throwing. Schoolkids were yelling and chasing around like mad, barely kept in check by harried teachers and the parents sitting on benches at the far end of the field.

"We," Cary said grandly, "are deciding which superhero would win in a race."

Preston frowned. "It's Green Lantern obviously, he can enter hyperspace. But shouldn't we be talking about sport or something? It's sports day, not comic-books day."

"We're talking about a race aren't we? That's a sport," Charles retorted.

"No, it _isn't_ ," Martin interrupted.

"Yes, it _is_ ," Charles shot back. "Preston, are you actually in any events or did you just get the day off school for nothing?"

"Hey! I'm in the relay and the long jump AND triple-jump - that's probably more than you."

"Triple jump?" Joe asked. "Doesn't that mean you're just really good at hopping?"

Preston sighed. "No, just think of it like long jump except with three jumps instead of one. Like it says in the name." He thought for moment. "…buuuuut actually, yes, there is some hopping involved. How many events are you in, Charles?"

"Lots of them," Charles said defensively. "All the throwing ones. And I'm gonna win 'em."

"Hmm. Is Ben Huxley doing the same ones?"

"…Yeah."

"Hmmmmm."

They all stared pensively at the absolute hulk of a sixth-grader standing under the next pavilion. Ben Huxley was… well. Let's just say that Ben had issues. Sometimes with Charles and their group specifically, but mostly just issues with everyone. That wouldn't have been a problem except that Ben had been kept down two years and as a result was nearly the biggest kid in the school.

"Well, good luck," Preston muttered.

"Thanks. I guess."

Then, suddenly, a whistle blew and the school vice-principal was announcing something over the loudspeakers. Across the oval, every kid stopped to listen: _"…All sixth-grade boys running the hundred metres please come to the starter's tent. All sixth-grade boys running the hundred metres please come to the starter's tent. Thank you."_

"That's us," Cary said quietly. "Joe, Martin, you coming?"

They began picking their way across the sports field, past schoolbags and jumpers and discarded chip packets. Charles and Preston waved after them. Joe waved back, and scuffed the heels of his new sneakers against the grass.

"So, uh… which division are you guys in?" Cary asked.

"C," Martin replied.

"A."

"What?"

"I'm in A-division," Joe repeated.

" _Why?"_

"Will got sick yesterday. He can't race."

Cary took a breath and shook his head. "You're gonna lose, Joe," he said bluntly.

"No I'm not."

"Yeah you are."

"Hey, I can run fast when I want to."

"But not _that_ fast."

Joe knew inside that Cary was sort of right - but hey, maybe the new shoes would help. He could feel a couple of butterflies in his stomach and a big heavy lump which he assumed was his morning tea. Next to him Martin was looking around nervously, back and forth between the sky and the horizon.

"What about you, Smartin? Are you gonna win?" Cary asked.

"What?"

"I said, are you gonna win?"

"Oh. Maybe."

"Just make sure your glasses don't fall off this year," Joe added helpfully. "Did you tape them to your nose like we told you? My dad said that might work."

"...they're not gonna fall off..." Martin answered.

"Okay."

They arrived at the runner's tent. About twenty other kids were there, eight for each division. Division C went first, and a minute or two later they were all waiting ready behind the start line.

 _BANG!_ went the starter's gun.

Martin came third. He looked really happy.

The Division B went. Someone named Daniel won, but the race was made slightly more memorable by one kid falling over about ten feet from the finish line and taking out the person next to him.

Then it was Division A's turn. Joe took his place on the start line, in the third lane, a couple of spots away from Cary. Cary gave him a grin and a thumbs up; Joe rolled his eyes and took few deep breaths. The finish line looked awfully small in the distance. Awfully far away. He swallowed and looked up at the benches where all the parents were sitting… and saw his mom. She was sitting a couple of rows back, next to Mrs. Kaznyk, dark hair shining beneath the steel sky. Elizabeth turned, saw him looking and waved. She grinned proudly and mouthed something that looked like _'You can do it!'_ Joe smiled and waved back.

"On your marks!"

Joe immediately tensed and took another quick breath. Focused on the finish line. A few of the kids knelt down in sprint positions, but Joe just leaned forwards and got ready to run.

"Get set!"

 _Just don't come last_ , he thought to himself. _Just don't come last. Just don't come last. Just don't come—_

BANG!

A split-second of reaction. His heart skipped a beat.

He ran. Pushed off as fast as he could, muscles straining, arms pumping, feet pounding on the grass. Faster and faster until the world was just a blur except for that distant finish-ribbon flapping in the breeze. Nearly every thought left his mind as instinct took over until he couldn't even count his steps anymore – _slap slap slap slap slap_ – and his body felt like air. He saw Cary out the corner of his eye a few metres ahead, saw the boy to his right basically neck-and-neck. Sprinting. Breathing hard. Now someone else was overtaking and he tried to force himself to go faster. He couldn't. The finish line was getting closer by the instant. Cheering voices echoed in the back of his mind. But he wasn't gonna come last, he couldn't see that many people ahead of him, he wasn't gonna come last, he was gonna come fourth, or fifth _—_

All he knew was the memory of running.

* * *

Cooper had a memory of running of his own, of running through the tunnels, surrounded by his friends. Their names were Masaq'-417 and Zila-421 and their thought-words echoed in his ears.

_/Take next route through secondary tunnel_

_/Cooper is slow (mocking) too slow!_

/ _(retort)_ Masaq' _is too slow_

_/Incorrect. Both are too slow, and both talk too much_

A huge grey blur whipped past them - Zila, leaping gracefully through the air. She landed with a skid and sped off even faster. Alien limbs pounded against the atom-smooth tunnel floor as Masaq' and Cooper galloped after in pursuit. Running, chasing, flying. Young and free.

 _/Don't think we are allowed here,_ Cooper thought worriedly.

 _/They will never know,_ was Zila's breathless reply.

 _Tunnels_. The Homesphere's tunnel system was an immense underground labyrinth, a network of spiralling, snaking caverns that honeycombed its way through the rocky core of the moon. The tunnels were old, awesomely ancient, and according to history had been dug by the first of Cooper's species to develop intelligence thousands upon thousands of years ago – back when they had to dig by hand, instead of using drones to do it for them. Despite their age the tunnels were in near-pristine condition: the walls were all perfectly machined, curving with gentle mathematical smoothness as they wound through millions of kilometres of flat dark rock. Nearly all of Cooper's life had been spent in the tunnels.

He loved it.

In this section the tunnels criss-crossed like roots of a tree, diverging at intersections and meeting in larger chambers. Up ahead was one of those chambers – a long, high-ceilinged cavern that was filled with humming silver machines. And floating around the machines were… lights. Bright, orb-shaped lights, about half a metre in diameter, hovering and buzzing softly like alien will-o'-the-wisps. The whole chamber was bathed in their multi-coloured glow, blue, green, purple, gold.

_/Look! The lights are working_

_/Amazing_

_/(Warning) Be careful not to touch—_

_/Cooper is still too slow!_

Masaq' took the lead as he thundered through the middle of the chamber, feet thumping, a huge, agile beast. Cooper and Zila followed close behind and the lights scattered out their way with an annoyed sort of shudder. Then they were back in the tunnels; the floor sloped downhill and bent sharply and Cooper nearly slipped over as he went around the corner, six limbs all struggling for purchase.

_/Take care_

_/Thanks_

_/…(playful) watch out!_

Cooper heard the last thought in the back of his mind. He glanced behind him and saw Zila leap forwards, arms outstretched – and he zig-zagged just in time to dodge her friendly strike. He swung back with one giant hand but, as always, she ducked easily ducked through his grasp.

They were almost there. Almost at the place. They kept running, through an intersection, past a line of grey-skinned, bewildered worker-types. Masaq' was the oldest of them and pulled ahead (he'd always been bigger than the others). Every now and then a wall would flicker as they passed, revealing a patch of interlocked white shapes. Cubes. Cooper was tired but he still kept up with them - he was growing stronger and faster every day, nearly ready for the pilgrimage.

Suddenly the tunnel ended in a flat, wide ledge and the three of them skidded to a stop. Before them was… air. _Lots_ of air.

Here the tunnel opened up onto a giant circular shaft, maybe half a kilometre in diameter, boring vertically through the rock. Above, barely visible, was a faint blue energy-dome that shielded the top of the shaft from the surface. Below, going down, down, down… the shaft just disappeared into the shadows (this particular shaft, in fact, went straight to the core of the moon).

 _/Tunnel is busy today_ Masaq' buzzed.

 _/Today is important (obviously)_ Zila replied. / _Masaq' should be more attentive_

All around the shaft, it was a riot of movement. Huge batlike creatures flapped through the air, leathery wings stretched out wide, ferrying cargo back and forth between the other tunnels and openings. Swirls of the small white cubes raced past, darting, whirling, forming shapes for the briefest of instants. Arrow-straight spears of blue light pulsed up and down nearby, serving as guides for squadrons of autonomous silver drones. One even _bigger_ airbeast floated high above, trailing tentacles; its enormous round bulk shadowed almost a quarter of the shaft.

Cooper took a deep breath of cold, underground air. It smelled of recycling.

 _/Jump?_ Zila asked.

Cooper blinked. He looked down at the infinite tunnel. / _Danger…_

_/Fun!_

_/…still danger_

_/Cooper'1413 came to jump_ Zila reminded him. / _Came to jump with Zila and Masaq'. Cooper is our friend but if Cooper does not jump Cooper will be pushed._

 _/Known. But wait (please),_ Cooper thought. / _Must think first. Must prepare oneself for-_

_/No waiting! No thinking! (forceful happy) Prepared now, time to go!_

Zila grabbed onto his arm. Their skin touched for a moment, wet and warm.

Then she shoved him over the ledge and out into the open air.

The world twisted. There was the rush of air; the sensations of shock, and vertigo, and falling. He sensed a shape flying past—

 _Grab!_ Zila whispered.

Almost without his permission, Cooper's four arms lashed out and locked around the leg of one of the flying bat-beasts. The creature screeched and tilted wildly but soon managed to right itself, glaring angrily at the one-ton weight that was now hanging from its body. Its wings slapped at the air. Cooper looked around at the air, at the—

_/Cooper is too slow! Always too SLOW_

Masaq' dove past him in a blur of thrashing wings and limbs, holding onto a bat-slave of his own. Cooper forgot about falling for a moment and on instinct willed his creature to give _/Chase!_

It did. _Fast._ The bat arrowed downward and suddenly Cooper was darting through the rush, past other bats and drones and floods of white cubes. Masaq' rolled sideways, holding on with one hand. Zila's joyous thoughts flooded the air from somewhere behind. The world seemed to glow. They spiralled past a stream of crackling blue plasma that reached out with fingers of lightning, but the creatures knew exactly where to go and whizzed past with room to spare.

 _/You were right,_ Cooper thought. / _…Why can't we fly?_

 _/Because then we would do nothing else,_ Zila replied. / _Look up!_

He looked up. Behind them, a vast wall of cubes was forming around the edge of the shaft. It flickered silver as it settled on the rock, extending and reforming as thousands more cubes swarmed in from the tunnels every second, layered in geometric shapes. Creatures and drones had to rush out of the way. And above, by the distant blue ceiling…

There was an extremely bright light. Almost blinding, white and pure.

_/This is why it is an important day?_

The light grew bigger, whiter, like a miniature sun that was slowly descending from the top of the cavern. He could hear it now too, a dull roar that filled the tunnel air. Filled his senses. The beauty of heights, the breath of the wind; this was so much better than running. The light was _very_ big. The ship was getting close. And suddenly, as he soared... all he could think about was flying, and how his world so very, very bright.

* * *

_Anger._ Bright and hot.

"Joe Lamb, get back here!"

"NO!"

He stomped through the kitchen, knives and forks clattering with every step. The table was set for Sunday dinner – three clean white plates ready for roast vegetables and lamb. Outside, the sun was just about to set.

"I mean it, Joe!"

"Go away!"

"Joe—"

His mom appeared in the doorway in front of him, with hot red cheeks and eyes like daggers. Elizabeth Lamb didn't get angry very often, but when she did…

Joe immediately turned and ran the other way, suddenly afraid. His mother darted after him, out through the hall, shockingly quick. She caught him in the front room and he almost fell as she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him round to face her.

"You are _grounded_ ," Elizabeth hissed. "For a WEEK."

Joe shook his head. "You – you can't! You can't do that!"

"Yes, I can. I'm your _mother_."

"It's not FAIR!"

"I know it's not fair. But you haven't been very fair to me, either! You can't say those things to me, Joe!"

Joe suddenly tried to pull away but she held his arm with a vice-like grip. "Look at me!"

He tried not to. But she made him, with a voice of stone.

"Look at me."

Joe did. He looked at her in the shadowy front room, his vision blurred with tears. When he saw her face, how furious it was, how disappointed, how hopeless all at once, it felt… awful. Like something you could never fix. Elizabeth sniffed, and continued more softly. "You can't say those things, Joe. Not to me, not to anyone. You might think that's what you feel, but it's not. And saying those things… it hurts people. It makes them feel like – like nothing. And people aren't nothing, Joe."

A quiet silence as anger faded. Six o'clock's news crackled faintly from the TV in the lounge.

"Now, this is all I'm going to say about it: you are coming to your grandmother's this weekend. No arguing, no complaining. We are going to visit her, and we are going to talk to her, and we're going to have a _nice time_ , and then…" Her voice cracked. "…and then we won't have to see her again. Till Christmas."

"But what about Charles?" Joe asked plaintively. "Can't I stay behind? Just once?"

"You'll have to see him another time."

"But I _promised_ , mom. I promised that we—"

"You'll have to see him another time."

"But we were going to see—"

Elizabeth's eyes flashed. "God, Joe, I don't care about Charles! I don't care! Sometimes _family comes first!_ "

Suddenly the anger came flooding back, swamping every other feeling in a tidal wave. "You should care!" he yelled. "It's IMPORTANT!"

"Joe—"

"We planned this for a whole _year!_ "

"I know but things change! Just – listen! I let you spend time with your friends every day, I've let you for eleven years, but this once, just this _once_ —"

"I hate you," he said quietly. Stupidly.

Elizabeth blinked. "…What?"

"I hate you."

She shook her head sadly. "No. You don't."

And that was when the front door swung open. His father walked in, wiping his feet on the mat, looking tired and grey from a hard day at the station. He dropped his bag and shut the door, grumbling a little to himself; then he saw them both standing there in the middle of the room – red faces, fists clenched – and frowned. Hard.

"...What in God's name is going on here?"

They shouted at him in unison. "Your _son—"_

"Mom won't let me go to—"

 _" _—__ just said that he—"

"Whoa, whoa! Enough!" Jack strode forwards and roughly grabbed Joe's shoulders. "First, _you_ are going to your room." He glanced warningly at Elizabeth. "Then _you_ can tell me what this is all about." He shook his head, grumbling again as he began steering Joe towards the hallway. Joe fumed and stayed quiet, staring sullenly at the floor.

They walked in silence down the hall. His father gripped his arms almost painfully as he was pushed unwillingly forwards. He let his legs drag against the ground, making it difficult; Jack shook his head ad muttered something ugly under his breath.

"Okay, in here." He kicked open the door to Joe's bedroom and pulled Joe inside. It was still messy. He pointed at the bed. "Sit there. Be quiet. Don't come out until I tell you to," he said sharply.

Joe met his father's irritated gaze for a second before looking away. He trudged to the bed and threw himself onto it, still mad.

Jack shut the door with a quiet, final click.

Powerless.

In the sudden silence, Joe grabbed one of his pillows and squeezed it as hard as he could, hoping that it would burst and explode and let out everything inside. It didn't. He threw it at the wall instead, where it smacked against the plaster and knocked over one of his models. Then he lay back down and gazed blankly at the ceiling, thoughts whirling inside his head, round and round and round again. Uselessly. His skin felt hot. No sound, nothing. Just blood rushing through his ears.

It was quiet.

And when it wasn't quiet, a minute later, Joe would've preferred that angry, suffocating silence. Accusingly: _"He's_ your _son!"_

Bitterly: _"He's yours too, don't forget. People keep saying there's more of you than me in him."_

_"How can you say that, Jack?"_

_"Hey, don't twist it around on me! I just want to know why you two are standin' around yelling at each other in the living room!"_

Muffled shouting, from the other side of the wall. The kitchen, maybe.

 _"It's because he hasn't got any_ empathy! _His grandmother's going to die and instead of going to see her all he wants to do is make movies with his friends!"_

_"Well, did you tell him?"_

_"What?"_

_"That she's sick."_

_"No! He's still young, he doesn't need to know exactly—"_

_"If you didn't tell him, how can you expect him to care?"_

_"Because she's_ my mom _, Jack!"_

_"I know that, Beth, believe me I know! But to him, she's just a daft old lady that he has to go visit twice a year. Sometimes, it's easy for me to feel like that too."_

Elizabeth took a while to answer. When she did, she just repeated the words. _"'Just a daft old lady you have to visit twice a year…'"_

_"I – I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry, Beth. I shouldn't have said it. I'm just tired."_

No reply.

_"And he does care. I'm sure he does. We all do…"_

Desperate, stifled sobs crept through the gap under his door. Joe tried to shut them out, but couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. He hid under his blankets and put his hands over his ears. Quiet, comforting darkness.

It was mother's day.

* * *

_/Mother._

Cooper walked through the dark, dark cave. It was cold. Wet. Quiet. Moisture dripped from the rocky walls and pooled in stagnant crevices. Even with his huge, glistening eyes he could barely see the way ahead – he had to rely on clouds of smell and tiny, soft echoes. He paused briefly, sniffed, and delicately stepped over a patch of small stalagmites. Most of the caves had been smoothed and polished by a thousand years of passage, but not this one. This one was special.

_/Mother? Mother angry. Cooper bad. Doing, seeing things he shouldn't. Angry._

It was dark, though. _Very_ dark. He didn't like it when it was so dark. He was far, far away from the usual buzzing sea of thoughts; the only communication he'd had in the last hour was from a confused worker-drone that had gotten lost. Cooper almost thought he'd gotten lost too…

/ _Make things better. Cooper must come here, and make things better._

…but just up ahead was the entrance he'd been trying to find: a black, round portal in the side of the tunnel, small and unassuming. Cooper leaned down and peered through the gap. It was… dark.

_/Very surprising (not)_

Cooper shuffled forwards and squeezed his three-metre bulk through the portal. He was still quite small for a youngling, but not exactly tiny either. With a bit of scraping he managed to lever himself through, and, with joint cracking, he stood up and looked around.

Yes, this was it. The old chamber.

It was round, roughly, with curving stone walls. Quite tall. Large. Mostly empty. A few inches of perfectly still water covered the unseen floor, as reflective as a black glass mirror. Some thin pillar-like structures rose from the liquid, oddly spaced, smooth and featureless and gently tapered. Cooper had no idea of their purpose. There were carvings on the walls too – huge carvings, of writhing alien shapes, ancient scenes filled with war and knowledge. Faint light played across the stone.

And in the middle of the cavern, there was a raised platform. Upon it was a flat silver casket. The surface was tarnished, pockmarked with age, but even from here Cooper could feel some kind of… aura. A cloud of muffled emotion.

Cooper blinked. He dipped one long finger slowly into the water, and watched a thousand ripples danced away from his touch. Then he took a step, and another, and began wading through the silent lake. The only sound was the gentle splash of his footsteps, and the soft echo of his breath. He wondered what his all his new friends would think of this – Zila and Masaq' and the others.

_/Curious_

After a moment, he reached the central dais. Water lapped gently at its edge. He climbed up onto the platform. All around him were the pillars and carvings and looming shadows; before him stood the silver casket. As he approached, the light in the cavern seemed to get slightly bluer, and he thought he could detect the faintest ultrasonic hum. The aura in the chamber seemed to be coming from here: the casket almost beckoned to him, _whispered_ to him, with its rough silver and ancient promises. Cooper reached out, and...

Nothing happened when he touched it; that was slightly disappointing. He peered closer, and brushed a layer of dust off its face. There was a faint depression in the side and he pressed it nearly without thinking. Then:

_Hissss…_

The casket activated. Pressurised air escaped from the thin black parting line that appeared around its lid – and slowly, slowly, the lid began tilting upwards. Cooper went down on all fours to get a closer look. Suddenly, he felt…

_/Should I be here (question)_

…scared. But eager, at the same time.

The casket opened. He almost hadn't expected it to.

Inside it, there were bones. White, old bones, large, jumbled together, covered in dust. They looked like they belonged to an old male – one that had died many years ago. The bones were very big. Cooper hoped he would be that big one day. The smell of death wafted around him, rising from the ancient carapace plates and flakes of dried skin. Cooper sniffed. Paused. The bones felt like a warning.

/ _Mother. Father._

But he had to touch it. That was what they told him. He looked around the silent chamber, with its pillars and carvings and rippling water, and saw nothing. So he closed his eyes, and reached out.

As young skin touched crumbling bones the aura in the chamber _burst_.

_/Space. Shocking emptiness. The void between stars, the gulf between galaxies. Immeasurable. Unreachable. Crushing. Ships dancing with twinkling blue engines._

_/The taste of blood. Warm, black. Too much. Far too much._

_/Drowning._

_/Ghosts. Ghosts of aeons past. Angry. Bitter. HATEFUL—_

Cooper opened his eyes and whipped his hand off the bones. He scrambled back from the casket, nearly tumbling off the platform into the water. Terrible thoughts consumed him.

_/A cold, lifeless planet. Stranded. Trapped and tortured, no way out. There was nothing for them here._

He wanted to run. It wouldn't let him. He grabbed the lid of the casket and slammed it shut. It cracked, he didn't care, he only wanted it to _stop. /_ _Shadowy beasts, hunting, killing._ The silver glittered. And the bones… moved. In the middle of the ancient, forgotten cave, they _moved_. He couldn't see them, but he could _feel_ them jittering and shivering in their coffin. He knew it. He knew they wanted him, wanted to get out. An awful, awful rattle. The walls were moving too, flowing like black, suffocating ink.

_/Friends, all dead_

_/How does it feel to be alone?_

All around, the water rippled. He couldn't run. He couldn't. Cooper keened softly and curled up on the edge of the platform, helpless, limbs folding, squeezing himself into a bony, motionless ball. Shutting out the world, shutting out the thoughts. Just a child. He had to be brave.

/ _Mother..._

Like that, he hid in the darkness, waiting for the light to come.

* * *

Light. When Joe stepped out of the air-conditioned car, that was his first thought - how so very light it was. And hot. And _open._ He squinted at the cloudless blue sky for a moment, then leaned over to grab his bag from the back seat of the car.

"Holiday hats on, everyone!"

His mom settled a white, flowery sunhat over her head, shielding her face from the harsh Arizona sun. Joe and his dad pulled on matching red baseball caps. Jack grabbed their camera and locked the car; then they started picking their way along the sandy, winding path, following the signs to the viewing platform. The ground all around them was covered in low scrub – fine orange dirt dotted with scraggly green leaves.

The viewing platform was simply a paved circle at the edge of a rocky outcrop. A waist-high wooden fence ran around the edge, and there was a raised section in the middle plastered with information sheets. A couple of other families were already there – one old couple taking photos, another family with three young daughters. Jack led them to the far edge of platform and pressed up against the fence. He gestured briefly at the vast expanse before them.

"There she is. The Grand Canyon."

"Wooowww…" Joe breathed.

The Grand Canyon, true to its name, was pretty darn grand. It was like someone had taken a scoop out of the earth, but with a shovel as big as a mountain – creating a huge, winding chasm that twisted as far as the eye could see. The far side of the canyon had to be at least two miles away; the bottom was so far down that it had its _own_ hills and canyons and mountain ranges. The canyon's stony walls had a rough, detailed surface texture, incredibly steep and incredibly sharp, and were split into clear, arrow-straight layers of red, yellow and brown. Where the rock met the gravelly lower slopes it was much smoother, looking almost like cloth or crumpled paper in the distance. Really _enormous_ paper.

And there was barely a tree to be seen. No vegetation, except an occasional brave patch of bushes (as you might expect in a desert). The air was dry, uncomfortably hot. The sky was hazy blue overhead. Sunlight played across the winding ridges and jagged, creased stone, casting deep black shadows.

"It so… _big_ ," Joe murmured.

"Do you know what made it?" Jack asked.

He shook his head.

"It was the Colorado River. Over millions of years, the water carves away the stone. Like when you build a sandcastle on the beach, and it gets washed away by the waves. Except the stone's a lot stronger the sand and it takes much, much longer… but the river just keeps going, and flowing, and gradually it carves out its own shape. It's called erosion. All the rock gets cut away and washed out to the ocean. How old are you now?"

"I'm _twelve_ , dad."

"Hey, it's easy to forget when the numbers get that big. But just for perspective, this place has been around about a million times longer than you."

Joe frowned. He looked around at the canyon's vast length, at its huge two-mile width, at the hint of the placid, brown-watered river that flowed close to a mile below. "Did one river really do all this?"

His dad grinned. "Why, I'm glad you asked. At the same time, all the ground around us – the Colorado plateau, it's called – was pushed upwards. Lots of the rocks here were originally below sea level, but they've risen nearly 10,000 feet since the dinosaurs died. And as they rise, it lets the river cut through them faster, and makes all these mountains stretch into huge strange shapes. After millions of years, more time than you or I can imagine… this is what you get. A grand canyon."

"Why did the rocks come up?"

Jack thought for a moment, then shrugged. "…Ask a geologist."

"Huh."

Elizabeth smiled at that. "I think your father's been doing some homework," she muttered. "Best not ask him anything _too_ difficult."

Joe looked up at her, shielding his eyes from the sun. "Have you been here before, mom?"

"No. Never had the chance. It's… beautiful."

They stared at it for a moment longer. A flock of birds were circling above the centre of the chasm, maybe half a mile away. Joe could just see their shadows skimming across the rock – skimming across layers of red-yellow stone and vegetation clinging to the slopes.

"Speaking of homework… do you remember what day it is, Joe?" his dad asked mysteriously.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Go on then."

Joe took off his backpack and unzipped the front pocket. Out of it, he took a small cardboard box, wrapped in newspaper. He handed it to his mom and said, "Here."

Elizabeth took the box and stared at it curiously. "What's this?"

"Happy mother's day," he said.

Elizabeth blinked. She paused for a second, then started unwrapping the present, carefully removing the layers of paper. Jack smiled faintly and turned back to the view, watching out the corner of his eye. The birds wheeled overhead.

When his mom opened the box, she gave a little gasp. "Oh, _Joe_ ," she murmured softly. Inside was… silver, glinting in the sunlight. Something that he'd had spent a long time making.

"I hope it's okay," Joe said nervously.

"It's more than okay. It's _perfect_." Elizabeth grinned, and stepped forwards and threw her arms around her son. She hugged him tight and Joe hugged her back, and their twin smiles were the brightest thing beneath that endless desert sky.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"So am I."

It was mother's day.

This time, they were tears of happiness.

* * *

Happiness. _Happiness._ That was what he felt when she picked him out.

_/Cooper'1213. Follow._

She beckoned, and disappeared through the opening in the back of the chamber. Cooper stood up. The rest of the children watched him with glowing, curious eyes. Some of them were jealous; the bigger ones especially. The younger ones, though, were happy for him. Slowly, he picked his way through the crowd, across the low-ceilinged cavern.

He soon reached the opening. He turned around to look back at his brood-mates – a sea of awkward limbs and small, leathery bodies, crammed together in the dark. The children were all tired, had learned a lot, but this was _why_ they learned: so that one day, they would be picked out and shown... the truth. Cooper took a deep breath, and then disappeared from view.

She was waiting around the corner. The Mother.

_/Come, Cooper_

She began walking down the tunnel. He followed her a short way behind. The Mother was enormous, compared to him; at full height, he barely came up to her knees. But he was still young. He'd grow. The Mother, on the other hand, was old. Her skin was wrinkled and cracked, and her legs creaked as she walked, and the tangled tentacles that covered her back moved with lazy, lethargic slowness - licking the air, scraping the familiar stone walls. Cooper saw that her eyes were closed.

 _/Do you know why you are chosen?_ she asked.

Cooper didn't.

 _/Not just because you are strong, or fast. Because you are_ smart. _Too often,_ _this is of forgotten value._

His heart(s) nearly burst with pride.

_/Here._

The Mother led him through into another huge, dark space. To a species unaccustomed to living underground, you could be forgiven for thinking most caves were the same. But for someone who'd spend their life in darkness… caves could be as distinct as any landscape, as deserts and fields and forests. Some tunnels were warm and comforting, like a mother's womb; others were long and curving, like roads in the midnight. Some were dry, sandy and desolate, while others were wet and filled with life.

This particular cave was... big. It was also imposing, and curiously hushed, like an empty, dark church. It felt _important._

 _/Wait._ The Mother walked onwards, and with surprising swiftness, her huge shape vanished into the gloom. Cooper waited. He could hear her doing something in the shadows, scratching, knocking about. Touching things.

Suddenly, strangely, there was a sound like a flute – a high, lonely note. Then a lower note which echoed all around them, alien and sad and beautiful.

The sound faded.

And the chamber began to _light_ up. Glowstrips on the floor buzzed to life, shining soft and yellow. They illuminated gently curving walls that rose to a ceiling high overhead, and a floor that was made of dark, almost organic-looking metal. Strange machinery and pipes covered the floor in criss-crossing patterns, all pointing to the centre of the cave like spokes of a wheel. In the middle was a smooth, circular platform.

From it, a giant blue sphere suddenly _erupted_ into existence, hovering just above the ground. The sphere was made of projected holographic light, faintly transparent; an insanely complex network of lines ran through its centre, surrounded by the barest hint of an atmosphere and a rough, cratered surface.

It was the Homesphere. Cooper stared in wonder as the projection rotated slowly; he'd never seen it like this before. The Mother watched it too, standing a little closer. She lifted something to her mouth and played another note, silhouetted by the strong blue glow.

More lights. More wonder, fading into view.

First were the nebulae. They appeared as swirling, insubstantial clouds, like wisps of the lightest aquamarine smoke that hung suspended in the air. Then were the stars, just tiny bright pinpricks, millions of them dotted all through the giant cavern. Uncountable numbers, spread between packed clusters and delicate, spiderwebbed trails. There were other places, too – other planets, other moons, represented as smaller blue spheres that revolved slowly around the Home. Orbital paths were displayed around them as solid rings of blue. Greener lines swept arcs from planet to moon to planet, connecting the many worlds that had been explored by their people.

 _/This is the galaxy,_ the Mother told him. She gazed upwards, following one of the spinning planets with her eyes, watching as it passed through the distant nebulae near the roof of the cave. Cooper looked as well. He didn't know the planet's name. The Mother touched one of the central control panels and the Homesphere shrank and sped away, replaced by the new planet which ballooned large in the centre of the room. It had a strange shape; not circular, but more irregular like a lump of misshapen sand. The air sang.

_/And this is the universe_

Immediately every star in the room _darted_ inwards to a single central point, merging into an impossibly bright speck. More lights instantly burst into existence all around, and more, and more, all zipping towards the centre of the room sickeningly fast as if the image was zooming out and out past solar systems and stars and galaxies… until, eventually, he saw it.

_Everything._

Now, the dots weren't stars. They were _galaxies_. Clusters of galaxies, trillions upon trillions of worlds, all connected by vast, intertwined webs of dark matter that spanned fifteen billion light years across the universe.

 _/You will be there, one day,_ the Mother thought softly. / _This is your first step._

Cooper breathed in deeply. He raised one of his arms, and opened his fingers, and swept them slowly through the sea of warm blue light. Galaxies scattered from his touch. Civilisations rose and fell as they orbited around his shoulders.

The Mother stepped back, and he shivered in breathless awe.

* * *

Joe shivered, with a mixture of cold and anticipation. He looked out the window at the entrance to the gymnasium, which was newly-bedecked with flowers and hanging cloth banners. _'Homecoming Dance 19_ _78!'_ it said. _'When You Wish Upon a Star.'_

"Nervous?" Elizabeth asked, from the front seat of the car.

"No, not really." Although he did feel a little uncomfortable in his collared shirt and tie.

"I still think you could've asked someone."

"It's okay, mom. None of my friends are going with anyone. Charles isn't, and I don't think Cary is either. Or Martin."

"That doesn't mean _you_ can't ask someone." Elizabeth smiled. "Don't you like any of the girls in your class?"

Joe looked away, embarrassed. "No! It's not—"

"What about the tall one that's always winning those running competitions? Brooke? She's pretty, isn't she? Why don't you ask her?"

"Mom! Shhh!"

"Okay, okay. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone." She winked.

Outside, a steady stream of cars passed through the parking lot, dropping off girls in shining dresses and boys in fancy ties. Partners walked arm-in-arm or were escorted by beaming parents. A photographer was snapping pictures outside, camera flashing upon the faded red carpet that led to the gymnasium entrance (still slightly damp from the night's earlier rain).

Elizabeth stopped the car in an out-of-the-way spot. She turned around in her seat, frowned a little; then reached out with one hand and straightened Joe's collar. "There you go."

He smiled. "Thanks mom."

She stared at him for a moment longer. Then she shook her head, and sighed. Happy, sad... maybe both. "I'm going to have to let you go sometime, aren't I," she murmured softly. "...Go on, shoo! Get out and have some fun."

"Yeah." Joe nodded and opened the car door, and stepped out into the warm autumn air. "Have a good time with dad."

"I will. I'll pick you up at ten, alright?"

The car disappeared back up the hill. He saw her waving. He waved back.

Then he turned, and started walking towards the dance. The music was already audible from outside. He trudged down the damp red carpet, past some potted roses the gardeners had brought out, beneath the dangling trails of party streamers. A trio of girls from his eighth-grade class glided by, chatting animatedly to each other. Joe glanced at the teacher - Dr. Woodward - who was supervising the entrance with a bored look in his eyes, then ducked through the gymnasium door. The song hit him as soon as he walked in.

_"Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me… Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me…"_

Dancing.

Darkness.

A disco ball, spinning lazily.

People packed together, moving like waves on a beach. Sound filling his ears.

Joe stood on his tiptoes and peered around the room, looking for recognisable faces.

"Hey Joe! Over here!"

They were in the far corner, next to the stage. It took him a few seconds to make his way there through the crowd. "Hey guys. What's up?"

"My IQ," Preston said casually.

Cary whirled around. " _Wow._ Have you been saving that one up all night, Math Camp?"

"…Maybe."

"Cool shirt Joe," Charles added.

"Thanks, yours is too." (It wasn't really, but he wanted to be nice; it had ruffles on it.) "How long have you guys been here?"

"About ten minutes."

"More like fifteen," Martin corrected. "And they've _already_ played this song twice."

"It's a good song!"

"It's not a good song. And Charles, you don't know anything about music."

"Hey, I listen to the radio sometimes."

"That doesn't count."

_"We climbed aboard their starship, we headed for the skies - singing come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me…"_

Cary snickered. "Do you want to know _why_ Martin doesn't like this song?"

"Ooh. Yes I _do!_ " Preston replied knowingly.

Martin frowned. Then his eyes widened. "No. Nonononono."

Joe and Charles exchanged a glance, then said in unison: "Tell us."

"Well, it's because— hey! Martin, that hurts!"

"Shut up Cary!"

"Ow! Stop hitting me! Ow! It's because—"

Dr Woodward's voice suddenly rang out from across the room. "Martin Haverford, please stop punching your friend! This is a school dance, not a wrestling match!"

Martin jumped back, embarrassed. "Yeah Martin," Cary muttered. "Stop hitting your friend."

Martin just glared. "Oh my _god_ , Cary, you're lucky I AM your friend."

"Or what?"

"Or—"

"Hey guys, stop it," Joe interrupted.

"—or I'll hit you again! Those are _bad memories,_ Cary! Why would you even bring that up?"

"Because it's funny?" Cary shot back.

"It IS pretty funny," Preston agreed.

Charles just rolled his eyes. "Who cares. Come on, just leave it. Let's go and dance for a while."

Immediately, there was stunned silence. The crowd flowed around them – hundreds of kids from fifth to ninth grade, swirling beneath the dim, multi-coloured lights. Joe felt the music rumble in his chest. " _I look to the sea, reflections in the waves spark my memory - some happy, some sad, I think of childhood friends and the dreams we had…"_

"Dance? You want _us_ to dance?" Martin asked incredulously.

"Well, isn't that the point?" Charles protested.

"Yeah, but who _with?_ "

They all turned and looked out over the polished wooden floor of the gym; it was a good question. There were plenty of people there, that was for sure. Plenty of girls. But…

"I'll dance with you, Charles," Cary whispered.

" _Shut up_."

The song ended, and changed to something a bit more soft and slow. The couples on the dancefloor spread out, and clasped each other's arms. Balloons and streamers floated through the gloom like ghosts. A few boys nervously approached new partners in that massively-awkward but still-charming way that seems to work wonders when you're thirteen.

"Hey, look. There's Alice Dainard," Charles said quietly. He pointed across the other side of the room; Alice was standing there with a few of her friends, in a simple yellow dress.

"…And?" Preston asked.

"I... never mind." Charles looked like he was about to say something, but then decided to stay quiet. Joe looked at Alice too. He felt nervous, for some reason.

Suddenly, it hit him - Alice was _pretty._ _Amazingly_ pretty, tall and pure, with a smile that shone in the darkness. He'd never realised it before; never even really _looked_ at her before. Or talked to her. Why? And right now she wasn't even dancing with anyone, just chatting with her friends.

In that moment, he wanted more than anything to be brave. To be brave enough to just walk over there, and take her hand, and maybe, just maybe, ask her for…

"Joe?"

He jumped. It was Charles. "What?"

"We're gonna go and grab some food. Wanna come?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Coming."

Joe glanced over his shoulder one last time, and saw Alice smile again at something one of her friends had said.

Her skin was glowing.

* * *

Outside, in the tunnel, everything was glowing.

Inside, in the egg, it was dark and warm.

That was his first memory: the darkness. The warmth. The feel of his limbs all crushed up against one another, pressing against the slimy walls of the egg. Hydrogen-rich fluid swirled in and out of new lungs. Tiny hearts beat in unison. Gradually, he became more and more aware of his surroundings – and with that awareness came the knowledge that he was something. That he was here. That he was _alive._

His first thought was that he was trapped (not a very nice first thought, but one that was appropriately geared towards survival). His legs began kicking against the wall of the egg, slipping against the smooth surface. Muscles tensed for the first time. They worked well. His fingers twitched reflexively.

_/need_

_/out_

The egg began to shudder – just one of hundreds that filled the floor of the birthing chamber. They were arranged in a square grid, each one about a metre tall, sitting upright in a bed of watery nutrients. Glowing crystals in the walls bathed the cave in soft blue light, pulsing regularly with a slow, deep beat. He kicked harder; scrabbled at the egg with his hands, twisting around in the cramped, hot space that had kept him alive for the past year. He felt the walls begin to give. And—

 _Scrick!_ A tiny fracture appeared in the egg's shell. Fluid began leaking out, mixing with the others on the floor of the cave. His first emotion was triumph: it spurred him on, made him stronger, a weak, soft body fuelled by a pair of newly-grown hearts. He lashed out again at his wet, round prison. _Crack._ More fractures speared across the surface. They grew and grew, splitting, widening, until he gave one last kick—

 _CRACK!_ Bits of eggshell skittered across the ground. The side of the egg crumbled, splitting into half-a-dozen jagged pieces. Water and slime rushed out in a wave, leaving behind a grey-skinned, curled-up body.

He lay there for a moment, exhausted – small breaths shuddering with effort. Then, slowly, he raised his head, and opened his eyes for the first time. Beautiful black eyes. He looked around curiously, trying to process what he was seeing.

Soft blue light. Egg-shaped shadows. Rippling water. The soft cries of another youngling, echoing through the cave. It was all new, yet somehow still _familiar_. He felt like he'd been here before. Like he knew what it was.

The world dimmed suddenly as a shadow fell over him. Pairs of legs splashed down into the water nearby. It was a shape, a huge dark shape, which bent down, reaching with one enormous hand – and picked him up. With that touch there was a single word.

_/Mother._

Gently, she lifted him. He turned over onto his back and stared into her face. Her aged skin was dotted with white, and her eyes were milky and grey. She hummed softly as her mouthparts opened, spreading like a fleshy six-petalled flower. It was a kind face. Slowly, delicately, she cleaned him. Her hands moved with practiced thoroughness. Pieces of egg fell to the ground. She dried his skin, and cradled him in her hands, and he shivered happily at her touch.

Then she raised a finger, and slowly touched it to his forehead. He blinked.

 _/Cooper,_ she thought.

 _Cooper?_ he asked.

_/Cooper._

It looked like she was happy. Then she leant down again, and placed him carefully on a small platform by the side of the cave. One of his brood-mates was already there, flopping about on the stone; he'd been the second one to hatch.

The rock felt cold beneath his feet. He tapped it with his finger. It was a new feeling.

The mother watched him for a second, then walked away, still humming, delicately stepping between the dozens of silent eggs. Then – _crack!_ There was another one that needed her attention. He watched her go, still adjusting to the world around him. The cave was filled with warmth. Then, slowly, he managed to waddle over to the other young alien.

 _/Cooper!_ he thought brightly.

The other took a moment to respond. She looked up, but when she tried to turn, she somehow managed to fall and flop clumsily onto her back, limbs splayed in all directions.

 _/…Zila!_ she replied eventually.

_/Cooper_

_/Zila!_ They played together in the darkness. Across the cave, the mother worked as she sang her comforting song.

It was night-time on the Homesphere, and everything was glowing.

* * *

Night-time. Still night-time, in the midst of the storm. She watched him by the flickering torchlight as the wind howled outside. The sky flashed again and he held his breath, looked into her eyes, tried his hardest not to jump – but he still did when the thunder came. Just a bit.

Elizabeth put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Joe, you can tell me."

It wasn't something an adult would understand, really. Only a kid. Only a kid, with your irrational fears and wide eyes and the sense that the world is so _big._ He never would've said anything if anyone else had asked. Never would have said anything, except to her.

"I'm scared of it – I'm scared of it hitting," he mumbled. "Hitting us."

"And?"

"I can imagine it, coming down, and… the house. Disappearing."

"And?" she asked again. "What else?"

"I'm scared of it hitting _me_ ," Joe whispered. "And you. And dad… I'm scared of _dying._ "

Quiet, for a moment.

"That's a big thing to be scared of, for such a little boy. Such a _big_ boy," his mom added lightly when she saw him frown. "Everybody's scared of death, somehow. The trick is just not to think about it too much."

"I know. I don't think about it a lot, I don't," Joe insisted. "Just sometimes. Like in the car, when it's raining really hard. Or when something bad happens on the news. It's – it's hard."

"Yes, it is, especially at night with the storm all around you. But being scared of death… it's almost like being scared of the future. There's no point, most of the time."

"…Really?"

"Most people live till they're eighty years old," Elizabeth said playfully. "Like Mrs Easton, remember? You've got more chance of going to the moon than getting struck by lightning. Why be afraid of something like that? It seems like a lot of effort."

"But there's always…" Dark little fluttered around inside him. He swallowed. "There's always a _chance…_ "

A crack of lightning. The crash of thunder. It seemed to be getting quieter, moving off toward the hills. His mother smiled again and it was a sad sort of smile, filled with gentleness, kneeling by his bed in the middle of the dark house. "We're all going to die, someday," she began softly. "It might be tomorrow, it might be a hundred years from now. But you can't live every day in fear of ghosts – when you're scared of death, you're scared of the future and you're scared of memories… of making memories, and of having nothing but memories left. You're scared of being alone, even when you aren't. You can't let that control you, Joe. Something your grandmother…" She trailed off.

"Mom?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Something your grandmother told me, a long time ago…" She began reciting the words, comfortingly, drowning out the rain. " _'Time will pass, and places will change. The finest flowers in spring, a shooting star, the rainbow right after a storm – all beautiful, and none can be captured and held forever. No matter how fair the flower, it will rot and fall to pieces if you never let it go. But memories will never hurt you. The flower withers, the star falls, and the rainbow fades away, but you will always remember their beauty. What I'm saying is… don't let your fears for tomorrow cloud the memories you're making today. Whatever happens, all the time you've spent with them, all the joy you've had, will still be yours.'"_

It was warm, under Joe's blankets. It felt warm as he turned her words over in his head. ' _Don't let you fears for tomorrow cloud the memories you're making today.'_

One sentence couldn't fix everything, but it was a start. At least it made him think a little less.

"I don't know if that helps," Elizabeth said uncertainly. "Mom – your grandmother – said that to me for a completely different reason. But… I think it's nice. Don't you?"

Joe looked around. The shadows, the cupboard, the trees outside – they all seemed a little less threatening.

"Joe?"

He realised he'd been staring.

"Is that better?" she asked again.

He smiled. "Yeah."

"Then close your eyes. You've got school in a few hours."

Joe snuggled into the sheets and shut his eyes. He heard his mom pick up the torch from his desk, skirting her way around scattered clothes and toyboxes. She tutted to herself under her breath. "It's messy in here, Joe."

"Mmm."

"Clean it up tomorrow?"

"Mmm-kay."

"Okay. Goodnight. Sleep well."

Joe opened his eyes, just a fraction and saw her standing in the doorway.

"Hey! No peeking," she hissed. "Go to sleep."

"Sorry."

"Love you."

"Love you too," he whispered back.

The door closed. The storm passed.

Finally, Joe slept, and dreamed beautiful, human dreams.

* * *

Dreams.

In the tunnels beneath the Lillian cemetery, Joe stared into the creature's eyes. There was life in those eyes. Fourteen years of his life, passed in an instant. A hundred of its years, passed in a blink. Two souls joined for the briefest of moments.

Plus a few more seconds - _t_ _ick, tick, tick._

Suddenly, the rush of feelings and memories and thoughts just _stopped,_ a gate somewhere slamming shut. He was back in the cave; back in the present. Back home. Here. Alien breath, warm on his face. An alien hand, dangling him in the air. Scared. Not scared. Both. New knowledge, filling his mind, the realisation spreading like lightning.

_A hundred years ago, on a planet far away, Cooper slept too._ _She'd keep him safe._

_Dreams._

_Beautiful, alien dreams._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation time! Back when I'd just started writing I had a couple of ideas: to further explore the connection between Joe and the alien, and to explore the movie's theme of how the past is important (but it's also important to look to the future). I decided to connect those ideas to one tiny moment in the movie, and expand it into a series of vignettes.
> 
> I HAVE LITERALLY NO IDEA IF IT'S ANY GOOD. This chapter is four times longer than I intended and instead of a single 'dream' it turned into... a short story collection? Each section was supposed to be much shorter - just a brief moment or feeling - but everything sort of ballooned outwards, and at the moment it doesn't connect as well as I'd like it to. It also kind of ruins the pacing, haha. EDITING IS REQUIRED (which is basically my catchphrase at this point). But there's still hints of what I wanted to achieve in terms of a 'profound' connection between two very different individuals.
> 
> I also made up many strange things about the alien society, which, if I'm being honest, I probably should've planned better, but one thing I didn't invent was "Cooper" - that was used as the alien's nickname while they were filming Super 8. It seems to fit strangely well, so I thought I may as well use it.


	20. A Sky of Starlight

Two figures, standing in a tunnel underground: on the surface, they couldn't be more different. But inside… somehow, Joe felt like he understood.

Perhaps the feeling was mutual. _You can still live._

The alien let out a long, low growl that filled the air, every corner of the cave. Its nose flared; the wet membranes of its face shivered with the sound. Alice and Cary were still watching from the ground, scared. Unsure. Its breath swept past him as a warm, earthy breeze and in the darkness there was a hint of black dirty teeth. Joe felt himself bobbing in the air, arms limp by his sides. Its arm trembled.

It was… considering him.

The creature leant in closer. All Joe could see now was that bony, incredibly strange face. It filled his vision, as big as his entire body, eerily still. And then, the alien…

…opened its eyes. Opened its eyes, for the first time. Joe realised that what he'd seen before were just _shields –_ hard, milky flaps that sat like inner eyelids, protecting the creature from harm. With a wet crackle, the shields parted.

A breath.

Joe stared in wonder. The creature's eyes were _green:_ pale, greyish green. They were human eyes, almost. Eyes with stars in them. Huge, and wet, and vulnerable. Real.

Another breath, as the creature tilted its head a little and… looked at him.

Really _looked_ at him.

And that look, that connection - he could feel it. He could feel it, deep down inside. It reminded him of someone, that incredible happiness and sadness and comfort, and it nearly broke his heart. The moment might have only been five seconds but it seemed like forever.

The creature blinked. _I'll remember it forever._

Suddenly, there was a distant, mechanical tone: the sound of machinery powering up, rising, pumping steam, echoing through the tunnels. The alien turned towards the noise. It frowned, peering into the distance. Joe followed its gaze, speechless. Then the alien turned back to him. It looked at him again, eyes narrowed; harsh, curious, wondering. The noise grew louder still. The machine was almost ready.

After another long pause, the creature bent down. With one huge arm it lowered him to the ground – slowly, oddly gently – and set him down on his feet. When its fingers let go Joe's legs collapsed beneath him and he fell back, slipping in the dirt.

The alien reared up to its full height. It glanced at the tiny human on the floor of the cave (and the other human girl cowering by the wall; it would've killed her, not long ago). One last, rattling breath – then it spun around and galloped away on six limbs, disappearing around the corner of the tunnel.

When its footsteps faded, it was like it had never been there at all.

Joe lay on the ground, breathing heavily, staring at the space where the creature had been. The machine hissed and whirred, louder and louder. Cary was the first to recover and stumbled forwards, looking back and forth from Joe to the shadowy cave.

"Okay, wait a minute. _What?!_ "

* * *

Near the south-western corner of the Lillian Middle School grounds, Preston crept up to a section of chain-link fence and grasped the bottom edge with his hands. When he pulled, a whole corner of the wire curled upwards, creating a small gap just big enough to duck through. The fence ran around the entire school but it did have its weak spots – usually they were used to sneak out during lunchtimes. Not to sneak _in_ during a military occupation.

Preston scraped through the fence, catching the wire on his shirt, and quickly took cover behind a couple of low bushes. There was a wide grass yard between the fence and the nearest classrooms, but the soldiers were all concentrated around the front of the school, and so this back area seemed relatively deserted. Nothing moved in the shadowy buildings, or amongst the carefully-trimmed trees.

Schools always looked weird at night.

 _Where would they keep stuff?_ he asked himself silently. _If_ _you were the military, which rooms would you use? What's secure?_

 _Or which room would_ Joe _use, if those guys found something... maybe_ _Dr. Woodward's class, that's a good guess. Check there first._

Whatever, the school wasn't that big. It would be easy enough to just run through looking for anything interesting.

* * *

Inside the science block it was similarly deserted. The wide central hallway was long and dark, lined with empty lockers and towering stacks of chairs. A couple of old student projects hung from the ceiling – model bridges made of popsticks, a foam ball solar system. Preston shuffled down the corridor, stepping quietly, camera at the ready. He looked into each classroom as he passed but they doors were all locked, the classes all empty. Except—

A light appeared at the far end of the hall and two air force soldiers walked into view.

Preston's eyes widened and he leapt sideways on instinct, clumsily squeezing between two stacks of chairs. He pressed his back up against the wall and tried to stay calm; he could hear the soldiers' footsteps approaching. They were holding torches and the beams swept across the corridor, flicking over the dusty floor. But he had a good hiding spot between the chairs, they hadn't seen him, they _wouldn't_ see him unless they looked directly sideways…

"What are we supposed to be looking for?" The voice was very close.

"Anything that's been moved. Anything out of place. Film, documents, that sort of thing. Check in there. The storeroom."

The soldiers stopped for a moment. There was a storeroom on the opposite side of the hall. One soldier walked up to the door and peered in through the window, torch held up to the glass. Preston could _just_ see the edge of his boots. _Don't look don't look don't look behind you—_

"Nothing. Looks normal."

"Okay, just keep an eye out for anything strange."

"What do you mean, strange? This whole week's been nothing _but_ strange."

"Ha. You got that right."

The soldiers moved on. Preston froze as they walked past his view – green uniforms, rifles across their backs.

They didn't see him. He let out the breath he'd been holding. Preston waited until their footsteps disappeared around the corner, out of hearing range, then slipped out from his hiding place and continued down the corridor. Dr Woodward's classroom was just up ahead, and it was the first room he'd seen which had lights on inside. That was a good sign, he supposed. _Or bad. It's hard to tell sometimes._ As he got close to the classroom, he slowed down, staying quiet. There were voices coming from inside - two voices, it sounded like. More military. And the window was broken too, with thick shards of glass scattered all across the floor. He tip-toed around them and crouched in front of the door, then cautiously poked his head up to look through the broken window.

A half-second glimpse: the classroom, mostly empty, chairs stacked on the tables, projector set up near the front (no film playing), two soldiers directly across from him looking through a brown paper folder. A couple of lights on, another pile of folders on a bench nearby—

He ducked back down. It wouldn't be good if the soldiers noticed some curly-haired kid spying on them. The camera, though... that was probably a bit less conspicuous. He pointed it at the floor and started up the film again. At least the microphone would be able to pick up the soldiers' voices, even if he couldn't see them.

"—Operation Belttrap. That's where it all began."

"Belttrap… that was the 1960's, wasn't it?"

"50's. Deep cover operation, stealing that creature and its craft right out from under the nose of the Soviets. It crash-landed, you see, sometime in 1958. The Soviets found it, we wanted it. Against all odds, the operation actually worked."

"I never actually heard much about that. Never had the clearance."

"Well, I'm telling you now. Keeping secrets hasn't helped us one bit. Regardless, the creature was kept in A-51 till very recently, until some higher-ups decided to move it to another facility. That was two weeks ago."

"Where were they moving it?"

"The Wright-Patterson air base, probably. Can't say for sure, but that's where the train route led. Secure, out of the way, big enough to hold a few nasty secrets…"

"So the 'where' makes sense. But why? Why move it? There was always a chance it could go wrong like this."

As if to prove the soldier's point, the roof shook with a muffled concussion (a distant explosion, from the other side of town). The lights dimmed for a second.

"I don't know why. The Colonel was always very private about his work. There were some rumours about another study being done in the same area, something else that had been found – another creature, another craft, perhaps – and that the scientists in charge wanted to link the two. No way to know if that's true; it almost doesn't matter. The thing escaped, and now here we are. Trying to find it."

"…Huh. And how are we going with that?"

"What?"

" _Finding_ it."

"Well, see here… where is it."

He heard the soldiers flicking through the paper folder. Preston did a quick pan around the empty school hallway, then pointed the camera through the broken window for a few sly seconds. He realised he'd seen one of the soldiers before – it was the officer that Mr Lamb had talked to out the front of the school. The fat one.

"Here. This picture was its proposed habitat; we believe it's subterranean."

"Subterranean?"

"It lives underground."

"I know what it means - but do we have anything more specific? The town's a big area. It's going to be hard to find."

"Well, the thing is, John, we're not going after it this time. You know how well that always goes – instead, we're waiting for _it_ to come to _us."_

"And how, exactly, are you gonna make it do that?"

Another pause as they turned the pages in the folder. "…These cubes. It wants to escape, but it needs the cubes to make its ship. We've got trucks full of the things all up and down main street, and the whole area's packed with firepower. We're hoping that Argus will take the bait so we can recapture it."

"Who's in charge of that operation?"

"One of Nelec's lackeys. I've been trying to piece everything together, but no one's really talking now that Nelec's gone. You, me, we'll all been kept in the dark. I heard there was some activity near the cemetery – houses caving in, ground sinking, that kind of thing – who knows, but maybe it's 'cause something's been digging."

"The cemetery… that would definitely be… fitting."

Instantly Preston's mind swept into action. _The cemetery. That's where Joe went. It must be, if he was looking for Alice._ He looked up again; the soldiers were still talking. _Have to be quick, they're probably there already. But it would be great to get some of those important-looking folders… would be great to…_

His eyes settled on the fire alarm trigger sitting on the wall beside him: _'In case of emergency, break glass'_ , it said, above a big red button (of _course_ they'd put an alarm near the chemistry classes). About a dozen different reasons of why it would or wouldn't work as a distraction ran through his head. _Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. Maybe you shouldn't hit the fire alarm at all because that's breaking the rules and you really really shouldn't break the rules—_ But he was past being scared, after everything that had happened. There wasn't time to think about it.

He raised his fist and hit the button. It hurt. Glass tinkled to the floor.

_AWOOOOoooooOOOOOooooOOOOOooooo!_

The fire alarm siren went off LOUD, ringing from loudspeakers in every single class – a painful, echoing sound. Preston took cover across the hall and snuck a peek at the two soldiers. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but they were looking around surprised and pointing—

* * *

Captain Rhodes looked up. He had to shout over the noise. "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"

"FIRE ALARM, I THINK!" The lieutenant pointed at a speaker in the corner, vibrating with energy.

" _Dammit._ " Rhodes cursed. On top of all the _other_ problems he'd had to deal with tonight… well, it was pretty likely that something actually was on fire. "WE'D BETTER CHECK IT OUT! COME ON! TAKE THE DOCUMENTS, WE'LL PUT 'EM WITH THE OTHERS!"

"WHAT?" The lieutenant shook his head, pointing at his ear.

Rhodes gritted his teeth. He grabbed the folder, whirled around and stormed out the door, leaving the lieutenant to carry the rest of the stuff. "TAKE! ALL! THE! DOCUMENTS!" he shouted over his shoulder.

The lieutenant watched him with a slightly bemused expression. He had absolutely no idea what his superior officer had said; so he shrugged, shouldered his rifle and followed Rhodes into the corridor.

* * *

Preston watched the soldiers sprint past and off down the hallway. He glanced after them; they looked annoyed. Quickly they disappeared from view and Preston ran across into Dr. Woodward's empty classroom, feeling awfully exposed in the half-light and with the siren still echoing all around. _WOOOOooooWOOOoooo…_

One of the folders was gone. But the other pile of folders was still there, lying on the workbench. Preston skidded between the desks and snatched them up, looking quickly at the cover—

**TOP SECRET  
**

**Argus Project** _**(A-13)** _

**1 2 / 1 1 / 1 9 5 9**

—before putting them under his arm. Then he ran out into the corridor, back to freedom, back to the open window in the cleaner's office he'd snuck in through five minutes ago. His footsteps squeaked on the slippery floor. With the siren still going he no longer had to worry about being stealthy.

"Okay, the cemetery. How do you get from the cemetery from here? You go _south_ , up the hill, down Beech Street, past the church… and that's it. Up the hill, down Beech Street, past the church…"

* * *

Joe tugged on the thick rope that led up to the cemetery. It was still dangling through the hole in the middle of the groundskeeper's shed, the only way they'd seen that led out of the tunnels. It felt secure.

It hadn't been too difficult to find their way back, once the threat of the alien had disappeared. The journey had been quiet as everyone thought about what'd happened. What had changed. Even Cary wasn't saying much, though Joe could tell he was bursting with questions. _Maybe that's good. I wouldn't know how to answer them._

"You guys go up first," Joe said. He looked at Alice. "Will you be okay?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine." She smiled quickly and took the rope with both hands, then started climbing up the steep, rocky slope.

Ground level looked like a long way away, but it wasn't really that far – maybe twenty metres up. Alice kept climbing. Joe saw her arms start to shake near the top, but a few moments later, she managed to pull herself over the edge. She collapsed tiredly against the wall of the shed, breathing heavily.

Cary took the rope next. Suddenly Joe noticed that one of his hands was bandaged, bound in dirty white cloth up to his wrist.

"How long have you had that?"

Cary gave him a look. "Seriously, Joe? Like, this whole time. Two weeks. I burnt it when I set off that firecracker in Martin's locker."

"…Huh."

Cary scampered up the rope with his usual monkeylike speed; dirt and pebbles skittered away beneath his feet. Two weeks seemed like an _insanely_ long time ago. So did two hours, for that matter. Then it was Joe's turn, and, finally, he ascended out of the tunnels. He had to strain with effort at first, but as he got closer to the surface he climbed faster and faster, a last burst of energy, until Cary and Alice grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled him out of the hole, onto the floor of the shed.

He closed his eyes and took a clean, fresh breath. Relief. It felt good. One final glance into the shadowy mouth of the tunnel, and he trudged out into the open air.

"Let's get out of here."

* * *

They walked through the gravestones beneath a starry sky. It was quiet, with no distant gunshots or booming explosions; just their footsteps, slipping on the grass. Orange firelight glowed over the rows of darkened houses, accompanied by clouds of thick black smoke.

"I never thought I'd be so _happy_ to see a cemetery," Cary said.

 _Me neither_ , Joe thought. _Especially this one._ Even now, in the back of his mind, he knew exactly where it was. Behind them, off to the left. The grave.

"Joe?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Where are we going?" Alice asked.

"I…" He realised he didn't know. He'd just picked a direction and started walking. He shook his head, trying to think; usually Charles did all the deciding. Tiredness was finally starting to catch up. "The water tower… we're going to the water tower. That's where its ship is. That's where it ends." It sounded oddly final: ' _That's where it ends.'_

"We're going in the right direction then," Alice replied.

"Or the wrong one," Cary muttered.

They kept walking. Thinking about the past, and what had happened in the tunnel. Thinking about graves.

* * *

Preston crested the hill past the church and saw the shadowy Lillian cemetery spread out before him. Trees, and grass, and benches, and gravestones, and—

Three figures, walking up the path towards him. He squinted in the darkness, barely daring to believe it. _Is it them? Is it them?_

It _was_ them! He'd recognise that short, rabbity silhouette anywhere – and Joe! And Alice was there too! He grinned and started running down the hill, waving his arms wildly. "Joe! Joe! Joe!"

"…Preston?!"

"Alice! Cary!" he shouted. He couldn't _stop_ shouting. Finally, he'd found them, he'd found his friends, and they were _still here_. _Alive._ Joe was smiling, Alice as well, and Preston realised he was coming in _way_ too fast and cannoned straight into Cary, who stumbled backwards and enveloped him in a fierce hug.

"Ow! What are you DOING here, Math Camp?"

"I – I wanted to find you guys. Just to make sure you weren't dead."

"Well, _thanks_ for nothing. You're super late."

"I know, I just…" Preston paused. "I thought about it, and I felt like I should help." _That's what friends do._

Joe smiled. "Thanks. I'm glad you came."

"Me too," Cary said. He stepped back. "But how did you get here?"

"Oh my _god,_ it was insane. First I had to get out of the base, through this creepy tunnel, and I caught a ride with your dad by the way—"

"My _dad_?!"

"—yeah, and we saw this wrecked bus on the road, and then I went to the school and stole some stuff, and I set off the fire alarm and everything! And I also found this…" He pulled out the camera. "I thought I should film things. You know, just for the memories. The memories and the evidence. Because this whole thing's been pretty crazy." He blinked. "Hey Alice."

"Hey."

"Are you OK?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I'm OK."

"…That's good." Preston suddenly realised that a few people were missing. Martin and Charles were nowhere to be seen. "Where are the others?"

Joe and Cary exchanged a glance.

"…I think we all have stories to tell," Alice said quietly.

"Yeah," Joe agreed. "We can talk on the way. Come on."

* * *

"So this creature – it's an alien? From another _planet_?" Preston asked curiously.

"Yeah, I guess. That's what it said in Woodward's notes," Joe replied.

"Wow. That's amazing."

Cary shook his head. "Man, this whole thing is just insane. Aliens, military conspiracies, frickin' huge explosions, everything. It's just… man."

They approached the street corner in uneasy silence. Lillian's main street intersected just up ahead; the water tower was to the left, sandwiched between the general store and the outer walls of the steel plant. Olsen's Cameras was right across from it. Joe could almost see the tower looming above the dark rooftops. And the streets had actually been weirdly empty so far - no military patrols, no tanks, only the occasional burnt-out car. Joe could hear a bit of noise from up ahead, though, and he had an unpleasant suspicion as to why. _The water tower… I guess the air force had the same idea as us._

He wondered what Martin and Charles were doing. They were probably okay, as long as they'd stayed put and hadn't tried to do anything heroic. He could still remember Martin's scream.

"And this alien…" Preston said nervously. "It's been killing people?"

"Yeah," Alice said. "It has. Some."

"That's _incredibly_ off-putting."

Alice slowed and turned to face him. "Yes. But it's different now. It was only fighting because it was scared. It didn't mean to—"

"But it was killing people! If _I'm_ scared and I start killing people, I don't get an easy excuse! How do you know it 'didn't mean to?'"

"I… just know." Alice sighed. "It's hard to explain."

Cary shivered. "I really don't like it when you say that. 'Cause we were staring down its mouth twenty minutes ago, and I thought I was gonna die, like actually die, and maybe it didn't eat us because it decided its stupid spaceship was more important than dinner for once! What about that?"

"I just KNOW."

"Ugh."

Suddenly, there was a soft thump from behind them. Preston was the only one to notice it; he turned around, and immediately his eyes widened. "Hey. Guys?"

"Yeah?" Joe replied.

"…the alien. What does it look like?"

"Big, grey skin, four arms, two legs. Kind of spidery."

Preston pointed. He looked thoroughly freaked out. "So like that then?"

"I'm scared enough already," Cary hissed. "Stop kidding around."

"I'm really, really not."

They turned around.

It was _there_. It was right there, in the middle of the street. A familiar, dark shape.

Cary nearly jumped out of his skin. "Holy—"

It was so unexpected that it didn't feel real. The alien was paused mid-leap, a few metres away, as if it was just passing by – like it had run into them by chance, crossing the road. It wasn't moving. Just… looking. Head turned towards them.

"Joe what it is _doing here_?" Cary hissed.

Joe didn't know. But without missing a beat, Preston pulled out his camera. _Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh—_ the creature was so huge, and weird, and scary, definitely scary, and he hadn't really known what to expect but this was _way_ different from anything in Star Wars. His hands fumbled with the lens as he focused on the looming shape. The camera whirred softly. He could barely think, it was incredible. _You have to film it. You have to make sure you can tell people,_ show _people—_

The alien just stood there, beneath the flickering streetlights, as if it wasn't sure what to do.

Alice stepped forwards, breaking the stillness.

"It's going to eat her!" Cary blurted out. He was still terrified, torn between running and staying.

"It's not," Joe murmured. "It won't." Then, he noticed that Alice was _smiling_. She stared up at the alien's face, fifteen feet distant. Happy.

"What? She's happy?! She's happy it's going to eat her?"

"I think…" Alice began. "I think it wants to say goodbye."

" _WHAT?!"_ Cary shouted.

Alice stepped forward again. Preston kept filming. The alien waited, still motionless. It was hard to tell what it was thinking. She reached out a hand, about to touch it—

The creature jumped away, blindingly fast. It leapt onto the nearest rooftop in a gust of wind and shadows. _Thump!_ Alice stumbled backwards, nearly falling.

It regarded them for a moment from the rooftop, looking over its shoulder.

Then it bounded away, and it was gone.

Preston kept recording the empty roof for a moment, then slowly lowered the camera. He looked stunned. So did Cary. For some reason, Joe felt like it _was_ a goodbye – that he might never see the creature again. He didn't know if that was good, or if it the world had somehow lost a spark.

"Guys. Look." Alice pointed back up the road, towards the main street of town. "Something's happening. We have to hurry."

Something _was_ happening, and it was the weirdest thing.

Everything was starting to fly. Down the street, at the intersection, a hubcap floated gracefully through the air. A metal barrel flew after it, tumbling and twisting irregularly like it was being dragged by an invisible force - spinning end-over-end, glinting in the streetlights.

"What is _happening_?" Preston asked, astonished.

"I don't know." Joe started running. There wasn't much time.

"What about the soldiers?" Cary hissed.

"They've got bigger things to worry about."

They ran up the street, focusing on the present, Joe and Alice leading the way. A group of half a dozen soldiers was standing guard at the intersection, gathered around an armoured personnel carrier. They weren't paying much attention though; just staring up into the sky, at the objects flying strangely through the air. Joe ran straight through, past the rumbling APC and the soldiers barely gave them a second glance. As they passed, a white Lillian council garbage can started rattling on its supports; with a metallic jerk, the lid sailed weightlessly off into the night, quickly followed by the dented can.

They reached the intersection, turned onto the main street, and stopped.

They looked around slowly, squinting at the strangeness. Cary twitched as somebody's lamp suddenly sailed by his head. It was flickering on and off, still buzzing with electrical static. Preston tried to get as much as he could with the video camera. Joe and Alice stared up the street – past the old bus terminal, the PennWay pharmacy, and Olsen's cameras, and the tiny RC toy shop, and the jewellers, and the two-storey brown brick grocery store – places they'd walked past hundreds of times, now utterly unfamiliar. The road itself was covered in debris, almost completely blocked. Tipped-over benches, parking meters, chairs, bikes, crates and boxes, electrical appliances, sheets of damp newspaper… almost like a mini-tornado had torn straight through.

And above it all, a steady stream of objects was soaring through the air. Joe could see a television, an arcade machine, a traffic light, even a child's red push-wagon. Everything was being plucked from wherever it lay, pulled at different speeds and in different patterns but all towards the same destination: the Lillian town water tower. The tower loomed tall fifty metres away on the side of the road by the grocery store, and the huge metal water tank was absolutely _covered_ in stuff. The objects were bulleting towards the top and sticking there, forming a single dense mass.

They walked forwards, breathless. Cary spun around as he tried to take it all in. Joe realised that everything flying _was_ metallic – if it was loose and made of metal, it was being dragged into the sky. The tank was gradually increasing in size as it was enveloped in a layer of TVs, silverware, mangled bicycles, their wheels still slowly spinning. Another twenty or so soldiers were scattered along the footpaths and they were yelling in confusion, looking around, pointing their guns at whatever was floating past. A couple had to duck as a bedframe whizzed over their heads.

Then CRASH! The windows of Olsen's cameras exploded outwards into a million shards of glass. Stereos and camera equipment tumbled out and streamed up toward the water tower. The soldiers by the window screamed, shielding their heads, and the windows of Cathy's diner shattered a moment later as an entire stove burst through. Glass scattered across the street.

"Hey!" One of the soldiers shouted as his rifle was torn from his grip, rising up to join the tower. Another soldier felt his rifle twitch and gripped it tightly, started yelling in panic as he was dragged along after it, knees scraping on the asphalt. "AAAH!" The rifle soared upwards and his boots left the ground and he held on until he was five metres up, then finally let go, legs kicking, falling to the earth with a heavy crunch. A few of the other soldiers ran over to help. Then a dozen car horns started beeping, adding to the chaos. Joe and the others looked across the street at Izzy's caryard. The cars were all lined up in rows, but every single headlight and indicator was flickering on and off, their horns beeping randomly in an unpleasant cacophony of sound. One car, a red Dodge, rocked back and forth on its wheels. Then, somehow, it tilted back, rising slowly off the ground, spinning higher and higher. Eerily weightless.

 _BAM! BAM!_ A sound like a gunshot. They whirled around and saw the army's big red cargo trucks parked along the road behind them. With another huge _bang_ the doors of the first truck blew open and—

Ten thousand white cubes poured out of it. They moved like an angry swarm of bees, soldiers leaping out of the way as the cubes zipped past.

"Look out!" Cary yelled.

"Get down, get down!"

The four of them it the deck, covering their heads. More of the cargo containers burst open, releasing their own cubes until there must have been millions of them swarming towards the water tower. The sound was like a million birds all flapping in unison. Joe looked up cautiously. The cubes seemed to be flowing in patterns, forming long, spiralling streams that circled round the tower – they were quickly joining the mass of metal, slotting into place amongst the layers of debris. As they assembled they lost their dirty white colour and became a shining, metallic grey. One stream of cubes was attaching from the top as a complex silvery spire. Up and down the street, soldiers crouched amongst the wreckage, and two heavy tanks had their cannons pointed straight at it, ready to fire.

They stood up as the air cleared, all staring at the water tower. Wispy strands of cubes kept churning through the sky. Gradually, clear shapes began to form – some of the cubes made a thin, curving body, and others formed jagged struts and plates, and as the parts hovered and clicked together it seemed to make some kind of… starfish? Five odd crescent shapes, attached symmetrically to the top of the tower.

"What is he doing?" Cary asked.

Joe realised what was happening and grinned. "...He's making a model."

Again and again pieces flew overhead. Alice looked on, mesmerised, while Preston held the camera. Bright blue light shone from the craft's sides as something inside began powering up.

Then, Joe heard the sound of an engine. A car engine. He looked down the street for a moment to where a small army jeep was making its way through the wreckage, around the gathered tanks and soldiers. The jeep pulled to a stop. A familiar figure stepped out.

Joe couldn't believe his eyes. He squinted, trying to see through the glare of the headlights.

_Dad?_

Jack Lamb glanced briefly at the spectacle occurring above – the huge silver vessel that was assembling itself on the water tower. The he looked down the street, and he saw his son.

Surprise, relief... words didn't cover it. Joe stared, and swallowed, and Alice did too, and then they were _both_ stunned as Jack went around the side of jeep and helped Louis Dainard out.

Joe and Alice exchanged a quick, nervous glance. Cary stepped back, watching from a distance.

Twenty metres away, the two men moved through the debris. A typewriter tumbled past them on its way to the tower. If they were surprised by the soldiers, by the activity all around them, they didn't show it - they just kept walking, focused only on their children. Joe took a deep breath and walked forwards. Alice followed a moment later.

So close.

* * *

Jack Lamb got there first. He stopped in front of his son, a look of concern and utter relief on his face. He grabbed Joe's shoulders and looked into his eyes, taking in the scrapes and the wounds and the dirt. He looked tired, exhausted... like he'd been through hell. _He probably has._

_But he's okay. We both are. That's all that matters_

Joe looked up at his father, and Jack threw his arms around his son. He held on tight, tight enough to never let go. Joe waited a moment, then hugged him back, staring tearfully up at the starry night sky.

"I got you," Jack whispered fiercely. "I got you." He sniffed, closing his eyes. Joe did too, trying to be strong.

You have to support each other, when there's only two of you left in the world.

* * *

Alice watched them for a moment, then glanced uncertainly at her father. He was covered in bruises, cuts, with bloodstains on his shirt. He walked forwards slowly, just... looking at her, and Alice wasn't sure what to do. What she _should_ do.

He stopped. And then, as she looked at him, she saw that he was sorry. She saw it in his sad, wounded face.

That he was sorry.

For now, that was enough. So she held out a hand…

…and Louis took it, and pulled her into his chest, and they hugged each other desperately. Closely. Recovering feelings that had been hidden inside for far too long. Alice laid her head on his shoulder, and his on hers, and they stood together as father and daughter, blocking out the world. Trying to make things right.

* * *

On top of the water tower the ship continued to expand. It was a delicate silver wonder, nearly fully formed. When Joe opened his eyes moments later, he saw another wonder crawling in the shadows - it had six limbs, dark and grey, and it was getting ready to fly.

He smiled. Everything was going to work out. Everything they'd been through, all the secrets and the fear and the pain…

…everything that _it_ had been through. It was almost over.

He held onto his dad, and watched the alien start to climb. Alice held her father too. Until—

* * *

Sergeant Javik was a soldier. He, like the rest of his squadmates, was staring with a mixture of shock and fear at the glittering contraption forming on top of the water tower. No one was really sure what to do. He'd been told that they had to take down some kind of creature (he'd seen what the creature had done to certain people; it wasn't pretty), but he hadn't actually seen any _creatures_ yet. Only this… thing, whatever this was. Only the ship.

Maybe the ship was dangerous, maybe it wasn't, but as a soldier that made him extremely nervous. He glanced up at the water tower again. Something like that could probably shoot back if it wanted to. _Hard._ He'd never seen anything like it. Basically, Sergeant Javik didn't like dealing with unknowns, or the fact that gravity had been turned upside-down.

He gripped his rifle tightly. The creature would apparently be appearing soon. _Where is it, where is it…_

Another discarded bicycle whirled past his head. He followed its flight, watching as it passed over the rooftops.

He saw something moving in the distance.

"Look! There!"

Something was climbing up the water tower. A huge, monstrous shape, gripping the tower's legs like a spider. One by one, the soldiers turned to watch, some of them stumbling back in awe, some of them raising their guns as the bright blue light shone down from the ship up above—

"Execute the containment order!" a voice ordered. "Fire! NOW!"

* * *

_CRACK- _CRACK_ - _CRACK_ - _CRACK_ - _CRACK_! _ Up and down the street, fifty carbines fired in unison. Bullets sparked in the darkness, ricocheting off the water tower and the alien's ship. The alien immediately swung into cover, dropping from the tower but a couple of shots caught it as it fell and it roared furiously in anguish.

Joe took a moment to react, dazed by the sudden violence. _What are they doing? What are they doing?_ White-hot muzzle flashes speared into the night. The sound was utterly deafening, echoing from the ruined shopfronts. Shell casings littered the ground. Alice and Louis staggered back together and Jack looked around and quickly took Joe's arm, started dragging him into cover.

"No! Dad, I have to—"

_Crack-crack-crack! Crack-crack-crack!_

_"Where is it?"_

_"Reloading!"_

_"Tank one, tank two, you have permission to attack. Take out that tower."_

A second later the two army tanks fired their main cannons. Twin tongues of flame lashed at the sky followed by a huge concussion, shattering every window that was still intact. Explosions burst against the water tower's sides and metal twisted red-hot from the impact. The tower shuddered.

"HOLY SHIT!" Cary shouted. "Preston did you _see_ that?!"

"Of course I saw it! Aaah!" One of the nearby soldiers fired. Preston covered his ears and slid down behind a bench. He panned the camera over the street, capturing the tower and the tanks and the legion of soldiers. Despite everything, it was hard not to imagine Charles saying 'Production value!'

Joe whirled around, looking for something, anything he could do. It was hard to think with all the soldiers around, they were all still shooting and it was just so LOUD—

"Joe, come on! Listen to me!" Jack shouted.

"Just wait! Please!"

Beneath the tower, the alien leapt up and began to climb again. It went quickly, keeping to the shadows, trying to stay out of the line of fire. The soldiers swept their rifles up and down the tower's length, blanketing it in ammunition. The alien roared with fury.

_"Keep shooting!"_

_"Don't let it get to the top!"_

_"Tank one, tank two, ready to—"_

The tank cannons boomed again. Another pair of explosions rocked against the tower, searingly bright. One of its supports jerked sideways and the alien dropped a couple of metres, exposed, hanging from one arm. Alice was shivering, unable to do anything and Louis held his daughter amidst the chaos, shielding her with his body.

" _Fire!"_

"NO!" Alice screamed.

The alien leapt sideways and took cover with a moment to spare. The soldiers moved forward, closing in.

"No! You can't! You can't kill him!" Alice whirled around in frustration. None of the soldiers were listening. Desperately, she looked up to where the creature was pinned down, tried to think as hard as she could, trying to make a connection with it like the one she'd felt in the tunnels. _"_ Please! We're NOT ALL LIKE THIS!"

_We're not all like this..._

Suddenly, Alice pushed forwards, wriggling out of her dad's grip. Louis reached out after her.

"Ally, don't!"

She dodged his arm and ran off towards the tower. _I'm sorry, dad. But I have to._

* * *

Joe ducked down while the guns kept firing. Then he saw Alice charge past and immediately, he knew what she was planning to do. He turned to his dad quickly and murmured, "I'll be back. I promise."

Jack frowned. "…what?"

But Joe was already gone.

* * *

They ran forth together, sprinting through the soldiers, past the jeeps and the tanks and the shattered glass and wreckage. There wasn't time to think about whether it was a good idea, only time to breathe and run. Alice was out in front. Joe chased after her. She tripped on someone's discarded backpack, got to her feet. Ducked sideways as another explosion boomed from above.

"Stop!" she shouted. "Hey! STOP!" She waved her arms above her head. Some of the soldiers looked at her curiously before turning back to the battle. But as she and Joe got closer to the water tower fence, they began to pay more attention.

"Hey, you two! Stay back!"

_Crack! Crack-crack-crack!_

The alien was still hanging half-way up to its ship. Tracer rounds thumped into the metal, ricocheting off in every direction, keeping it pinned down. Bullets flew every which way. One of the soldiers tried to stop them as they sprinted past, but Joe pushed through and slipped out of his grip. He looked over his shoulder and his heart nearly froze – from here, it looked like half the air force was firing right at _them_. But of course, that was the point. Soon, he and Alice reached the fence and they pressed up against it, standing at the base of the tower. Huge holes had been torn in the wire by tank blasts. Concrete cinders cracked beneath their feet.

"Watch your fire, there's a couple of kids up here!"

"Get back!"

A lucky shot caught the creature in its leg. It bellowed, let go on reflex and fell back to earth. It landed heavily, thumping against the ground. A couple of soldiers tracked it and kept shooting, bullets arcing through the night _—_ until a shot whizzed _right past_ Alice's head, hitting the leg of the tower behind her. She flinched.

"CEASE FIRE, CEASE FIRE!"

Suddenly, there was silence. The last echoes of gunfire soon faded from the hills.

Joe and Alice turned to face the gathered soldiers.

The view was… scary as hell. Joe swallowed. He felt the metal fence digging into his back; heard the alien groan softly as it lay on the ground behind them, nursing its injured leg. For a moment, the world was frozen. Balanced on a knife-edge.

Then the closest soldier stepped forward. He was young, thin, with dark hair and deep brown skin. Carefully, he took off his helmet.

"…what do you think you're doing?" the soldier asked softly.

"We're protecting it," Alice said. Still a little shaken.

"Why?"

"Because it deserves to be protected."

A few of the air force men were talking urgently in the background. Joe had a horrible feeling about what they were discussing.

"You _know_ this thing?" the soldier asked.

"Yes. And it doesn't deserve to die. It doesn't deserve to be captured."

"But it's killed a whole squad of our—"

"Everything it's done, it's done because it's scared," Alice said firmly. "Because it just wants to _go home._ Everything that's happened is because some stupid people in charge just didn't want to understand." She stood up straighter, her eyes hard. "And if you want to kill it, you'll have to go through me."

"Through us," Joe said quietly.

The soldier paused. He looked back at the assembled platoon of men, at the tanks and APCs lining the street. "Well, you're certainly very brave."

Joe wondered about that. Maybe they were just stupid. He told himself to breathe; there were lots of guns, pointed right at them (or at the alien crouching somewhere behind). The soldier was about to say something else when a superior officer called out from the rear.

"Sergeant Javik?"

"Sir?"

"Get them out of the way."

"…What do you mean, sir?"

"I meant exactly what I said. We have orders to apprehend the creature at all costs. That order also applies to you."

Above them, the spaceship hummed, finally ready to take off. Behind Joe and Alice, the alien started to stir. It was breathing heavily, rustling as it moved.

Sergeant Javik turned back to them. "Maybe… maybe you're right," he began. "Maybe this thing is friendly."

"It _is_ ," Alice repeated.

"But we can't let it go. We have orders—"

"So is that what you're gonna do? Blindly follow orders for the rest of your life?"

"No," he said calmly, "But—"

"Sergeant Javik?"

"…Sir?"

"Shoot them."

"What?"

"Either get them out of the way, or shoot them. The creature is moving. And they look like they aren't getting out of the way."

"Sir, we can't just—"

"The lives of two children are _more_ than worth the opportunity this creature provides! You have your orders."

That was bad. Real bad. Alice looked around, eyes darting back and forth; heart pounding, starting to panic. Joe glanced behind him, and saw one alien eye staring balefully at them from the shadows. Somewhere, there was the sound of a safety catch being flicked off.

Sergeant Javik held out a hand, and took a small step towards them. "You have to move away."

"No," Alice whispered.

Joe saw his dad running through the crowd, coming straight for them. Louis was there too, pushing soldiers aside as they attempted to bar his way. _No, dad, don't do something stupid. Not now. We'll get out of this. We'll get out of this._

_Will we?_

"Sergeant Javik? Shoot them."

"I can't." The sergeant was sweating, one hand on his rifle.

"We have to get the creature, sergeant. At all costs. It killed Colonel Nelec. It killed Overmeyer. It's the most valuable thing this country owns. SHOOT THEM."

"I… I can't, sir."

There was a long, ominous pause.

Then several things happened at once.

The creature moved.

Javik swore, and closed his eyes.

The men on either side of him raised their guns.

Jack and Louis shouted in horror.

Alice ducked.

Joe pushed her sideways.

The streetlights flickered, bright and dark.

And then every single person had their rifle torn from their hands.

The air force men milled about in confusion as the rifles zipped up into the sky, a few of them firing harmlessly at the stars. Then the closest tank began shaking and rumbling and suddenly – _BAM!_ – it flipped over onto its roof, throwing debris everywhere, pushed by an incredible force. Its main cannon misfired straight into a nearby jeep, engulfing it in a cloud of fire. Soldiers sprinted away to safety. The second tank soon followed it, while the rifles swarmed downward and joined the thick layer of metal already surrounding the water tower.

Joe turned around, and saw the alien climb. Unimpeded, it reached the top in a matter of seconds, perching for a moment in the shadows. It clung to the underside of the tank and, gracefully, it swung up onto the side, climbing still further. The five main prongs of the ship were now complete, covered in sleek angular metal and glowing blue vents. Every surface curved to a sharply tapered point. Above them, four shorter prongs emerged from the central body, appearing almost like claws. The alien was climbing up the ship's body now, towards an open door at the top. Warm blue light emerged from within.

"Joe?" His dad's voice, behind him.

"Yeah?"

"Don't _ever_ do that again."

"I won't." He hugged his father again, really meaning it. A few metres away he saw Alice do the same. Joe held on and closed his eyes as they gradually filled with tears.

In the doorway, the alien paused. It looked back for the briefest of moments, then disappeared into the ship. The doors slid shut behind it.

_Thank you._

They walked away from the tower, back to safety as the top section of the ship started to rotate. The four shorter claws locked into place. Now streams of yellow light were shining from their ends. Engines, maybe. Other plates were tilting and expanding outwards. The ship echoed with a distant, rising whine. The soldiers could only watch as the engines powered up.

Suddenly, Joe felt something move in his pocket. He opened his eyes, confused for a moment. Then he reached down, and—

He barely caught it as it flew upwards, one hand held tight around the chain. It pulled up towards the water tower, suspended in the air. Wanting to go.

The silver locket.

He held it there, standing in the street, arm stretched out to the sky.

Joe knew what it meant. For a long moment, he stared at the locket, glinting silver against the ship behind. Jack stood close by his son, watching the tiny, floating shape. He understood.

It was always so hard - letting go.

So, so hard.

_I have to. I know I have to._

_But I can't. I can't, or I don't want to. I can't bring myself to do it. Not now, not ever._

_I don't want her to… to…_

_Click!_

Pulled by the invisible force, the locked popped open.

Inside, there was a picture of her.

A photograph. Beautiful, black and white, a baby in her arms. Joe looked at her, really _looked_ at her, and in that moment she almost seemed to be looking back. He took a quiet, sobbing breath. He couldn't bear it.

 _I wish you were still here. I wish I could hear you laughing. I wish I could see you when I come home from school. I wish I could remember how our house smelt of happiness, and how it felt, and how… how you were just_ there.

_But I can't._

_It's hard, isn't it?_

Behind him, Jack's eyes suddenly welled with tears. Alice was crying too, face streaked with dirt and grime. Watching. Knowing. Feeling. Finally, Jack reached out, and put a hand on his son's shoulder.

That was all Joe needed, really. That quiet strength from the ones you love. The feeling that no matter what's happened, things will be alright. Because they will be, if you're strong.

He opened his fingers.

And let go.

The locket flew across the sky, joining the millions of stars above. It grew smaller and smaller, floating gently, until it clinked against an empty spot on the side of the water tower.

And that was it. The tank couldn't stand the pressure anymore. The entire thing just _imploded_ , crushed to nothing, and a huge firework of water burst outwards with a roar. It showered across the street as thick, heavy rain, coating everything in a layer of dampness. More water continued to fall as the ship, finally...

...started to rise. Its launch engines fired, blue rays of energy shimmering on its five main arms, spearing from the end of its body like a miniature white sun. Joe watched it climb – majestically, slowly at first, the wind from its engines ruffling his hair with a stiff, crackling breeze. Jack watched it too, with an arm around his son's shoulders. Alice and Louis stepped forwards, standing beside them. All gazing upwards.

With a groan, the ship cleared the top of the tower, pulling away from the ground. The remaining weight of the tower's legs was too much for their battered, fragile supports; the metal started to twist and buckle, tilting more and more, until with a gigantic crack the remains of the tower toppled right across the street. Soldiers jumped out of the way and sprinted for cover as several tons of steel tore through trees and power lines, crashing down onto the asphalt in a great cloud of dust. Bits of metal frame were thrown off by the impact. The remains of the crushed water tank knocked aside an entire jeep. One of the tanks was crushed by a beam a second after a soldier leapt out of the gunner's chair, and Joe and Jack staggered back from the impact.

" _Hooolyy shiiit!"_ Cary mouthed, eyes wide.

The ship rose further into the sky. It was twenty metres up, then fifty, then a hundred, spinning slowly around its center. Its engines shone a pure bright blue, spitting out a static roar. They all saw it go – Alice, Jack, Louis, Joe, standing beneath its glow.

* * *

Above the empty houses of a dark and empty town, the ship shines like a beacon of hope. Blue streaks trail from its engines as the vessel climbs toward the stars. It seems a shame that almost no one is there to see it amongst the deserted, midnight streets.

 _Almost_ no one.

Charles and Martin stagger across the firelit grass, Martin limping slowly, his arms around Charles' shoulder. They watch, amazed, while the distant light rises into the sky – Charles with his mouth half-open, and Martin, as always, like he's about to cry behind his thick lenses.

Donny's fast asleep in his battered Pontiac Catalina, parked at the top of Marlborough Hill. He's still sitting behind the wheel in a slack, drug-fuelled haze, and the rising ship is reflected on his windshield as a five-pointed star of light.

Cary grins in wonder as he sees the ship fly, its pure blue light illuminating the ground beneath it – Lillian, Ohio, Earth. The planet it's finally leaving. The wind from its engines blows his jacket out behind him and all he can do is smile, thinking about fireworks.

Preston aims the stolen camera at the distant flare of light. The shape of the spacecraft glints on the lens as a tiny, bright pinprick. He follows it with the camera as it accelerates upwards, becoming more distant with every passing moment. So many _questions._

Joe and Alice watch as the ship disappears into the sky. Their fathers stand beside them – giving them strength, holding them close, all of them looking upward as one. The wreckage of the street is now strangely peaceful, bathed in blue and white and the warm summer air.

* * *

Slowly, almost unconsciously, Joe reached out and took Alice's hand.

After a moment, still looking at the ship, Alice closed her fingers gently round his own. They didn't need any words. The touch was enough; the warmth, the understanding, everything they'd been through. Staring at the stars together, in a world that they were both a part of.

Alice smiled a little. Happiness mixed with sadness, and a strange sense of loss.

Eventually, Joe smiled too. It took a little bit to get there, but he realised for the first time in six long months that... that the world didn't feel so empty anymore. It didn't feel _right_ , not quite. But perhaps it would, given time. Perhaps it was a new start. He knew his dad felt the same from the arm around his shoulder. In the sky, the ship was now so far away that you couldn't see the individual details – just its engines, forming a new star in the night, blazing brightly over the soldiers, and the town, and two families now joined together.

Joe Lamb watched the ship ascend into a sky of starlight, and couldn't help but feel that maybe, just _maybe_ … everything would be all right.

And then, finally, the ship was gone, leaving only a whole universe of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started this story in 2011, it was basically written as a Christmas present for someone – I didn't really have intentions to go through the whole movie.
> 
> GUESS WHAT? I GOT THROUGH THE WHOLE MOVIE.
> 
> It's been a fun journey, despite far too many late-night edit sessions. It's also been satisfying to write, especially when you really nail that certain scene or feeling. I like to think that A Sky of Starlight turned out quite well – a bit wordy and pretentious in spots, and with total disregard for proper use of commas, but overall it's pretty cool. The deleted scene stuff was troublesome occasionally but hopefully it resulted in some good additions.
> 
> Thanks as always to all of my readers and everyone who's left a review – I'm not kidding when I say that it brightens my day. It's awesome to know that people all over the world can get enjoyment out of my scribblings.
> 
> Have fun reading!


	21. The Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how hard it is to come up with the last line of a story? Here's a hint: it's REALLY FREAKING HARD. Anyway, this chapter is just a bit of fun before whatever happens next – I apologise for the whole thing being a bit nonsensical, but Charles unfortunately isn't the best at writing movie scripts.
> 
> 'But JetpackSunrise – what IS happening next?' you might ask. Well! The current plan is for one 'oh-my-gosh-it's-not-a-novelisation-anymore' chapter before real sequel stuff starts happening. Sequel stuff. UGH IT'S SO CLOSE (and intimidating). We'll see what happens once we get there…

* * *

**THE CASE**

* * *

There's a lot you can do with a little piece of chalk. A schoolteacher might use it to present important dates in history; a child might use it to draw a game of hopscotch on the street. If you were a policeman, or a detective, you might use it to mark off the scene of a crime.

Unfortunately, John Hathaway _was_ a detective, and one who'd seen far too many bodies in his time. The outline of this particular body was traced in dirty white chalk, on the floor in the middle of the hallway. The guy who'd called it in stood uncomfortably next to it, looking nervous in jeans and an old moth-eaten sweater.

Hathaway gave him a quick glance, then walked down the corridor, taking in details with a practiced, casual eye. The hall was dingy, dimly lit, lying deep in the bowels of some irrelevant office complex. Bare concrete floor. Chipped paint on the walls. The air smelled of decay and old rot (basically the usual for this area of town). The detective, in contrast, was looking smart as ever in his beige suit and fedora. His tie however was slightly askew, the result of a few too many drinks the night before.

Hathaway stopped next to the chalked figure. Sad, how a person could be reduced to a thin white line. Nothing remained but a thick splotch of blood, pooled just above the collarbone.

(The chalk outline has proportions that look like a cartoon, and the blood looks a _lot_ like ketchup. The witness also appears to be about eleven years old, but he's doing a pretty good job of looking sad.)

"This is where my friend was attacked," the witness explained quietly. Walters, his name was. Montague Walters. He was chubby, a little short, with a mop of messy brown hair.

Hathaway pulled a notebook from his breast pocket. "By who?"

"I've never seen him before." Walters looked down at the outline, still shaken. _Innocent_ , Hathaway decided, or as much as anyone could be. "He looked pale _. Craaazy._ He bit my friend."

"Then what happened?"

"He was dead. And then—"

"He got up and walked away?" Hathaway interrupted.

The witness looked up, surprised. "How did you know?"

Hathaway didn't answer. But inside, he had a sinking feeling – the kind of feeling you get when your worst, most far-fetched hunch on a case looks more and more like the truth. This wasn't the first body he'd seen this past week. Unfortunately, it would be far from the last.

"Anything left behind?" the detective asked.

"Yes. This fell out of the pocket, of the attacker's pocket."

"Thank you."

Walters held out a laminated business card. Hathaway took it. _'Romero Chemical. Level 5, Building 47,'_ it said. White type on a red background.

It was his first solid lead in days.

(This was first reel they filmed. The lines run into each other a bit and the editing is really choppy, but the scene does get the point across. The director says this is the best he could do without reshooting the whole lot, and no one wants to do _that_.)

* * *

Romero Chemical: a huge maze-like factory complex on the outskirts of town, filled with warehouses and conveyer belts and cooling towers. The steel grey buildings blend with a darkening sky as steam whistles sound in the distance.

The President's office, on the other hand, is much more welcoming – a wood-panelled room with an old, stately feel, thanks to the thick carpets, dusty armchairs and the strangely enormous lamp in the corner.

(Seriously, it's a big lamp. The office also looks quite a bit like it belongs to someone's dad.)

Detective Hathaway strode into the room with as much authority as he could muster. This case had been building for weeks now; getting stranger and stranger with every passing hour, making him question everything he knew about the world. He used to think that he understood things. The way things worked, why people did what they did.

The case had changed all that. The murders, the bodies. Everything had changed.

All he knew was that Romero Chemical was involved in some way, and that for some reason they didn't want people to find out why. Every official, every company executive he'd questioned had given the same blank responses - so now he was going straight to the top for answers.

When he entered, the President was on the phone, standing in a grey suit behind his large oak desk.

"Hello Mr. President, I'm Detective Hathaway. I'm here to discuss some urgent matters regarding your… 'chemical factory.'" He was unable to keep the disdain from his voice.

The President looked up, not seeming particularly surprised at the intrusion. "Are you referring to the recent… 'incidents?'"

"Yes, I believe I am."

"...Tell the Chairman I'll call him back." The President put the phone down with a sharp _click_ and leaned back in his chair. He gave Hathaway a sharp look. "You have three minutes."

The detective had performed interrogations in less time than that, though usually with less… important suspects. He quickly pulled out his trusty notebook and pen. "You want to tell me about those employees?"

"I was sorry to hear of their… unfortunate accident," the President began, not sounding very sorry at all.

"That was no accident!" Hathaway retorted. "Did you see the bites on their necks?"

"Are you suggesting some connection between my chemical company and those, those—"

"Those were _zombie attacks!"_

"Romero Chemical has nothing to do with any such thing," the President replied firmly.

"Then what happens in Building 47?"

The President glanced quickly to the left – but not quickly enough to escape Hathaway's gaze. He was definitely onto something. He could feel it. There was now a subtle edge in the President's voice; the kind of edge that suggested bad things might happen, if Hathaway turned the investigation in this direction.

It also suggested that this was the _right_ direction. The detective had been in similar situations before. So far, he'd been smart enough and cunning enough to always come out on top. So far.

(The President is apparently extremely bad at lying and would make a terrible poker player. It's unclear if he is the President of the United States, or just the president of Romero Chemical, or both. Let's go with both.)

Hathaway pushed on. "You wouldn't mind if I… took a look around, would you?" he asked.

"Of… course not," the President replied.

It sounded like he did mind, but Hathaway decided to take the invitation. It was time to leave anyway; he could tell when he'd hit a dead end. The detective stood up, adjusting his fedora.

"Good day to you, Mr. President."

"Good day, detective."

They shook hands. The contempt between the two men was suddenly so thick you could almost taste it. Hathaway turned and strode quickly from the room and the door slammed shut behind him.

The President picked up the phone once more. He spoke only two words into the receiver – two sinister words.

"He knows."

* * *

The building was little more than a large tin shed, surrounded by an ugly barbed-wire fence. Any paint on the walls had mostly peeled away in years of wind and rain. The only visible identification was a small black '47', drawn a foot above the door.

With a soft creak, the door swung open. Detective Hathaway stepped through. He paused cautiously, silhouetted in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness; after a moment he pulled out a heavy flashlight. The beam swept across the gloomy, dim space, seeming to almost get swallowed by the shadows.

Building 47 was apparently nothing but an old warehouse – dirty, cobwebbed, crowded with crates and old machinery and junk. Chemical barrels sat rusting in the corner. Nothing moved amid the thick, dusty silence.

(The detective's flashlight hits the lens for a moment, flaring brightly. Ominous music starts playing. Soft at first, getting faster.)

Hathaway walked slowly through the spooky, dark space. Faintly, he could hear a sort of growling industrial drone: the sound of the rest of the chemical factory, humming around him. It made the whole place feel oddly unsettling, an itch you couldn't scratch.

Then, a sound, quick and strange. Like... slithering. Hathaway tensed, aiming the flashlight the noise. He watched. Waited for a moment. The light cut through the thick dust in the air, falling upon an old office door.

The door was slightly ajar.

The detective was nervous, despite himself. No matter how many nightmares you'd been through – and Hathaway had been through too many for one man's lifetime – every moment of darkness was something that had to be faced anew. He'd hunted killers through places like this. Abandoned places, filled with nightmares. He's been hunted by killers, too.

Perhaps one of them was here now. Hathaway peered at the doorway, leaning closer. Was something moving, in that dark office? Was something waiting for him? Or perhaps, the detective was looking in the wrong place.

In the darkness behind Hathaway, a shadow _moved_. It was a human figure, indistinct; it crept silently towards the detective with a lopsided, animal gait. Closer, closer… Suddenly, Hathaway felt something prickle on the back of his neck. Some kind of sixth sense, a sense that had kept him alive all these years. Something was watching him. He turned around—

"AAAH!" The flashlight clattered to the floor.

The creature lunged. Hathaway stumbled backwards, his back slamming into the wall. The _thing_ attacking him was human, or it looked human, but its teeth snapped and hissed with hungry animal ferocity. Rivulets of blood ran down its face, across pallid skin and terrifying, pure white eyes. He struggled in panic, trying to push the creature away but was pinned tight against the bricks.

 _It's a zombie,_ Hathaway thought distantly. _A walking corpse. They're real._

The case, it seemed, had suddenly got a whole lot worse.

(The zombie is short, with wavy blond hair and braces. It's not a bad performance; the zombie looks seriously ferocious with its corpse-like makeup and clacking teeth. The ominous music is super-loud now, jangling and ringing over the zombie's growls.)

Hathaway kicked, panting desperately, trying to push the thing back. It had no pupils, no irises, just a blank white stare, and a mouth that dripped with spit and as it tried to bite into his flesh. He tried to get one hand to his pocket, to his gun, if only he could get to it he could shoot and kill the foul beast—

 _There_. His fingers closed around the grip of the pistol. He pulled it out, finger on the trigger – the beast shrieked he pressed the barrel against its neck – but then its arm caught his wrist and knocked the gun to the ground where it skittered away across the concrete. Decaying fingers scratched at his face. All it wanted was to rip into his bones. Somehow Hathaway managed to wriggle out of its grasp and he spun around, the zombie held at arm's length, and suddenly his eyes settled upon three sharp nails sticking from a board in the wall. He grasped the zombie's shoulders and _pushed_ hard with all his strength, the zombie growling and screaming, a cacophony of horror, pushing, pushing, and with one final SHOVE—

 _Splick!_ Hathaway slammed the zombie against the wall, impaling its skull on the rusting set of nails. The metal pierced its skull with a sickeningly wet crack.

(Some clever editing makes it seem like the zombie really _was_ stabbed in the head. This is probably the director's favourite moment; for that extra special touch, all it required was a bottle of corn syrup, red food colouring, and some creative sound effects involving a hammer and a watermelon. It was a very sticky afternoon.)

Abruptly, the corpse lay still, pinned against the dusty concrete. A sticky string of red began to drip from its open mouth. Blood pooled on the floor as the shaken detective caught his breath.

Hathaway had seen many strange things in his time, but this was undoubtedly a first. If there truly were zombies walking this god-forsaken earth - things were even worse than he'd thought.

* * *

Later that evening, Hathaway sat alone in his office. The room was simple, as far as offices went; mostly bare but with a hint of messiness ('lived-in', you might say). There was a single desk, covered in papers. Certificates on the wall from when he'd been in the force, before he'd become a private eye. A few chairs for visitors.

He didn't get many visitors, these days. 'Friends' were few and far between when you were in this line of work. But still… he had a few. A few people that were important that him.

 _Click. Click. Click._ His finger trembled a little as he dialled the number. The encounter in the warehouse had affected him more than he wanted to admit. A moment later, the call connected, and he held the receiver up to his ear.

"Judith. It's me, your boss. I need you to buy my wife a ticket to Michigan. It's too dangerous for her here. I just love her so much."

(The detective doesn't sound very loving. He thumps the table to try and make it a bit emotional, but it feels so feeble and insincere it's probably better that he didn't. Maybe the detective didn't like that part of the story. Or maybe he was feeling a bit sick that day, and later vomited up a whole pack of Twizzlers. Who can say?)

The body in the hallway. The President's lies. Romero Chemical. Building 47. The crazy old man who'd first said the word 'zombie' to him, only two weeks ago. It all had to fit together somehow. He felt like he was close, so close to piecing it all together, figuring it all out, but all the mysteries and corpses just kept stacking up.

There was something he had to do first. Someone he had to keep safe.

* * *

Dusk fell upon on the train tracks with an eerie kind of suddenness. Carriages sat silently upon the silvery, winding rails, waiting for departure, carrying their cargoes through the night. The station was quiet at this late hour. Nearly deserted, except for a few hardy travellers.

(Upon closer examination, the carriages are made of plastic and about three inches high. Their paint jobs are pretty awesome though.)

On the station platform, Detective Hathaway stood opposite his wife. She was… very beautiful.

(And also fourteen.)

So beautiful that it always took his breath away no matter how many times he saw her. Rebecca Hathaway had her blond hair tied back, the way she did whenever she was worried, and her eyes were filled with emotion. Standing there, in the night, coat wrapped around her tightly, the wind racing around them both... he couldn't bear to lose her.

But he had to lose her. Just for a short while, so that he wouldn't lose her forever. He couldn't leave the case, not now. Not when he was so close. He didn't want to send her away.

But he had to. A train raced by in the background, so loud and quick they had to shout above its passing.

"I'm going to stay here and investigate!" Hathaway explained loudly. "I think it would be safer if you leave town."

Rebecca looked up at him. "John, I don't like it! This case. These murders." Behind her, someone was dialling the station's payphone.

"Well, what am I supposed to do – go to Michigan with you?"

"Mackinac Island's beautiful this time of year!"

The detective shook his head sadly. "Sweetheart, this is my job!"

"The dead, coming back to life?..." Admittedly, it was closer to the job of a priest than a detective. She swallowed. "I think you're in danger!"

"I have no choice!"

"You do have a choice! We all do!"

Hathaway knew she was right. He also knew what she would say next.

She continued, the train still roaring behind her. "John, I've never asked you to stop. I've never asked you to give up, or walk away. But I'm asking you now – _please!_ For me! Don't go back. Don't leave me!"

Strands of her hair whipped about in the wind. Detective Hathaway looked into his wife's eyes, and saw only truth there – only the woman he'd loved for so long. So far he'd managed to keep her safe, and now, she only wanted him to be safe too.

"I need to know this isn't the last time I'll see you," she pleaded. "I just love you so much!"

"I love you too!" he shouted back.

Rebecca smiled at his words. For a moment, the world felt normal again.

Then disaster struck.

(Suddenly, interrupting the sad violin, there's the sound of boys making explosion sounds. It's very enthusiastic. _Pew! KKRRRCHRK! Screeeee!_ Plastic carriages are thrown clumsily through the air amid showers of sparks. _Pew! Pew!_ There's an awkwardly-inserted view of flames burning on some sand. Some of the model carriages appear to be actually _on fire_. One spins slowly as it falls, like a toy spaceship being swooshed by a kid, and after a few more seconds of destruction the carriages fall to the ground – blackened and still and slightly melted, shrouded in a few strands of smoke.)

* * *

**THE NEXT DAY**

They stood alone upon the grassy hillside, staring at the crash site with haunted eyes: Hathaway and his wife, somewhat shaken but thankfully both still alive.

"I can't believe we weren't killed last night," Rebecca murmured.

Hathaway turned to her. "Okay, now you _have_ to leave town," he said firmly.

"No! I'm staying here with you." She looked determined, the steel of her resolve matching the colour of the sky.

"I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."

He meant it. Rebecca gave him a fierce sort of glance, then looked down the hill at the ruined train station. "What if there are survivors down there?"

"There were no survivors! Did you see that crash?"

He pointed down the hill. They'd come out here so that they could view the wreckage, examine the aftermath of the terrible crash – and it WAS terrible. A scene of utter devastation. Hathaway still didn't know if it was connected to the case or not; if it was, his enemies had greater power than he thought. More than enough power to destroy him and those he loved.

(In the valley, past the line of trees, there appears to be a real-life train crash. It's absolutely gigantic and looks very real, with wrecked carriages scattered across an area two hundred feet in length. Metal's twisted and torn over itself, with anything around the crash site crushed by the huge force. Deep scars are torn in the grass.)

Except... maybe there were survivors. On the hillside, there was someone moving. A figure with its back to them, stumbling through the grass.

If there were any survivors, they'd definitely need help. "Excuse me, uh – sir!" the detective called out. "Were you in the wreck?"

The figure turned.

And revealed a set of bloody teeth.

Rebecca screamed, barely able to believe what she was seeing. The zombie started staggering towards them, arms held out, reaching hungrily for their bodies. Its eyes were that same unsettling white that he'd seen on the creature in Building 47 - soulless. Utterly soulless.

No survivors after all.

Hathaway quickly drew his trusty pistol. With clammy hands he held it in front of him, aiming, taking fast breaths, praying that the creature could be killed with bullets and that his aim was good and true. The zombie lurched closer, and suddenly he was overcome with an icy calm. He would survive. He would protect her.

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

The zombie screamed a shockingly human scream, clutching at its chest, as flowers of blood bloomed upon its shirt. A moment later it fell sideways, collapsing into the long grass.

He'd killed it. Five swift shots, just like practice at the shooting range. He stared at the corpse for a moment, then holstered the pistol. Slowly, his heart began to beat normally again.

If the zombies were here, the infection had spread further than he'd thought. How far, it was impossible to tell. Every new body just made things worse. Harder to control.

Still, at at least that was one less zombie to worry about.

In the silence, Rebecca stepped forward and put her arms around his shoulders. "That settles it," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

John Hathaway needed some time to think. Whenever a case got to be too much – whenever a mystery looked unsolvable – he usually took a couple of hours at home, in the office, just talking through his thoughts. That reflection often led to a slightly different way of looking at things. A new perspective could be very important.

The Hathaway house sat on a quiet suburban street, surrounded by dark pine trees. The house itself seemed nice, well-kept, but with a slight sense of... sadness about it, at the same time. As he sat behind his desk, the detective leaned forwards, and pressed the 'Start' button on the tape recorder.

Slowly, he began to speak. His voice was quiet. Contemplative.

"It's been two weeks and the murders continue. This investigation is like no other. It's putting too much stress on this town – and on my marriage."

He looked off into the distance, staring at nothing. Hathaway's desk was covered in old papers and files; everything he'd collected so far related to Romero Chemical. He just needed another _lead_. Anything. In the corner of the desk was the half-empty whisky bottle that his only company on these past few nights. The bottle always felt like a good friend at the time, but not so good in the morning.

With a grimace, he took another swig, downing it in one gulp."…Could zombies be real?" he wondered out loud.

(The whisky's apple juice and he's drinking it from a jar. Don't tell anyone.)

 _BRRING!_ The phone rang loudly, shattering the silence. The detective quickly answered, stopping the recorder.

"Hello? This is Detective Hathaway?"

There was a short, muffled conversation, punctuated by Hathaway's slightly satisfied smile. "I'll be right over," he finished, putting the handset down. Finally! Another piece of the puzzle.

* * *

It could have been any street corner in any quiet American town, except this particular corner was bustling with _very_ strange activity. Military jeeps and trucks were parked along the pavement, their dark olive paint contrasting with the gentle suburban setting. Soldiers walked to and from a single house on the corner, carrying dozens of boxes and stacks of folders.

Detective Hathaway stood across the road, hands stuffed casually into his jacket pockets. Across from him was a soldier – young, in an ill-fitting green uniform, with the arrow-straight posture drilled into you after a few years of service.

The soldier was an old friend, one of the few he had left. His name was Joe. Joseph DeWitt. Last time they'd met, it had been in vastly different circumstances – in a dodgy Chicago dive bar, when the case had just begun. It was only two months ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. Both of them had to squint in the bright afternoon sun.

"I came as soon as I could," Hathaway began. "What's happening here?"

"A military police investigation," Joe answered quietly. "It was a suicide."

"A suicide? Who was it?"

"A former Air Force officer. He called me last night. Said he had a secret that he couldn't keep any longer." Joe handed him a thin manila folder.

"What's this?"

"He worked at - at Romero Chemical. He found out some things the company's been doing. After what you told me at the bar, I thought you should know."

(Officer Joe seems a bit stiff and uncomfortable and stumbles over his lines, but again, the scene gets the point across. The real soldiers in the background do at least provide some decent production value. Whatever that means.)

Hathaway opened the file, flicked through a couple of pages. "…It says he worked for Dr. Peter Bracken," he muttered. 'Bracken'… he swore he'd heard that name before. But where?

When he turned over the next page, he took a sharp breath. There it was. Evidence. The first concrete evidence of Romero Chemical's involvement.

"This proves it. They knew, the company _knew_." Hathaway looked up. "Thank you so much for the information."

"We just made the discovery ourselves," Joe replied cautiously. "You understand this is top secret."

"Of course."

"I would never have given you this information if we hadn't served together in Vietnam."

Hathaway nodded. "Those were hard times."

"I'd rather not talk about it."

They were hard times indeed, but hard times were often good for making friends. And sometimes, the right friend in the right place could just save your life – or crack a case wide open.

* * *

Dr. Peter Bracken's office was nestled deep in the Romero Chemical labs, hidden from the outside world. Of course, _officially_ , the company had nothing to hide, which meant that, officially, they couldn't stop the detective from walking straight through and making a beeline for Bracken's office.

Hathaway opened the door slowly and peered inside. It looked like any normal doctor's office – a few chairs, a desk, filing cabinets. A dead body lying casually on a hospital bed in the corner, covered by a blue sheet.

(I don't think that doctors' offices usually have dead bodies in them, but let's just go with it.)

On the wall was a map of the United States, dotted with strange lines and numbers. The doctor himself was working at his desk; Detective Hathaway glanced over his shoulder, then shut the door carefully behind him. "Doctor."

"Detective." The doctor nodded in greeting. He looked to be an unassuming sort of man, though perhaps a little plump; he wore a white lab coat and had a stethoscope around his neck. He didn't look like a killer. Just a man who didn't know the evil he'd created.

(The doctor's hair is slicked back with an almost offensive amount of hair gel. It basically looks his skull is made of plastic.)

The detective cut straight to the chase. No more games. "I'm here to discuss your involvement with Romero Chemical?"

The doctor appeared unperturbed. Quickly, he began to explain, as if even he could sense they were running out of time. "I was the one that developed the… 'special compound' to turn all these humans into zombies. It was supposed to be used as a military weapon, but it got out of hand. So I made this antidote that will hopefully cure… all of the zombies."

Bracken's voice echoed with regret. He turned, and took a fat syringe of green liquid from one of the drawers in his desk. Hathaway's eyes widened.

"That's incredible. How much have you made?"

"Just this one," the doctor said worriedly. "Would you like to help me test it on this innocent victim of my creation?"

Dr. Bracken glanced at the body on the hospital bed. He pulled off the covering sheet, revealing a corpse with pallid skin and a shadowy, lined face. The man had been dead for some time.

(If you were paying attention, you might have noticed that the zombies all look extremely similar. Identical, even. They're not clones – because this is a story about zombies, not clones, although clones might be a cool idea in the future now that you mention it – but that's what happens when you have one actor who _really_ likes pretending to eat people.)

Dead for some time. Ha. Hathaway knew better than that.

Unfortunately, the doctor didn't.

The corpse sat up with shocking speed. A scream like the devil BLASTED from its mouth and it grabbed the closest piece of meat it could find – the doctor – and chomped into his shoulder, ripping off a bloody chunk of flesh. The doctor screamed too, an awful, desperate sound and Hathaway backed away, stunned. Suddenly afraid.

But he'd seen this before. He had to end it here.

Hathaway raised his pistol and fired. The sound of gunshots filled the office. The doctor was still struggling in the zombie's grip, the zombie with its jaws still locked around in his shoulder, blood pouring from the wound. _Bang! Bang!_ A bright flash. One of the shots found their mark and the zombie flew back, thudding into the wall. Suddenly lifeless once more.

The zombie gave one last cough and slid limply to the floor, a single bloody hole in its forehead. The doctor turned away, breathing hard, leaning on his desk for support.

There was a soft, low growl. The doctor stood. When Hathaway saw his face, it was—

Dead. Dead skin, teeth bared, eyes filled with hunger.

Once you'd been bitten, it didn't take long for you to turn. Bracken's eyes narrowed. He started stumbling towards Hathaway. The detective raised his gun again, but this time, when he pulled the trigger, it was with an air of sadness.

 _Bang! Bang!_ Two bullets to the heart. The doctor clutched his chest, falling back.

 _Bang!_ One last shot to make sure.

The doctor lay still on the ground, killed by his own creation. The green syringe of antidote lay on the floor beside him. Hathaway snatched it up, still watching the doctor nervously. He backed away, and eventually, when it was clear it was over – he lowered the pistol with a sigh. That was it. The end.

The zombie plague was done.

* * *

"Honey I'm home!"

Hathaway closed the front door behind him and walked down the hallway. There was no reply; Rebecca was supposed to be home, as far as he knew, but the house seemed oddly quiet. He held up the green syringe that he'd taken from Dr. Bracken's office. "Good news! We found a – a cure! For the zombie infection!"

Silence. Hathaway swallowed, and felt the first hints of nervousness. Something… something was _wrong_. He could sense it.

(Suspenseful music starts playing, echoing the detective's thoughts.)

Hathaway walked down the hall, stopping before the door to the bedroom.

"Honey?"

The door was slightly open. Hathaway pushed it inwards and looked around the room. It was like he'd left it in the morning – the bed made, the lights off. Empty.

Behind the detective, something moves, accompanied by a soft, barely-audible growl. A figure stumbles down the hallway towards him. It comes into view.

And it's her.

Her face was pale, her lips blood-red. Her dress hung limply from her skeletal frame. She hissed as she walked towards him, her arms reaching for her husband. She was nearly close enough to touch—

Hathaway turned. His heart nearly froze. Rebecca stumbled into her husband, clawing at his flesh, knocking the syringe from his hands. The detective desperately pushed her away. He could barely move. His mind was on autopilot. They struggled. He fell to his knees.

They'd got to her. Somehow, they'd found her, and he hadn't been able keep her safe. With one arm he pushed her up against the wall and with the other he grasped desperately at the syringe, battling against her inhuman strength. She scratched at him. He felt weak. He didn't want to hurt her, but this creature, it _couldn't_ be her – there was nothing left of his wife in those ferocious eyes.

(The camera whips back and forth, following the struggle. It's pretty effective work.)

One of her arms caught him and his fedora tumbled from his head, falling next to the syringe. They were both struggling on the floor now and he grabbed her shoulder, keeping her back. His other hand was close to grabbing the precious antidote, so close, he could feel the plastic, and he stretched a little more and—

Yes! His fingers closed around the syringe. Rebecca screamed and hissed, still clawing at him. Instantly he jabbed the needle into her neck, injecting her with the sickly green liquid. She took one horrible, gasping breath—

And almost immediately went limp, slumping sideways. Lifeless.

Hathaway backed up against the wall. He was sobbing hysterically, operating almost on instinct as he took the pistol from his jacket pocket. With trembling hands and tear-filled eyes, he aimed the pistol at his wife's head.

Rebecca wasn't moving.

Perhaps the antidote… perhaps the antidote didn't work after all. Hathaway's mind recoiled as he thought about what he might have to do. He would be saving her, in a way. Saving her from an existence as one of those terrible monsters.

"Sorry," he whispered, pleading to a ghost. "It didn't work. I wish it worked."

Hathaway's finger tightened on the trigger.

"I tried. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

(The detective's acting is surprisingly good. He seems genuinely about to break down into miserable mess of tears.)

Hathaway prepared himself for what he was about to do.

There was one zombie left. Only one. Sitting across from him in the hallway of his home.

One left. He took a tearful breath, about to shoot.

And then, amazingly...

Rebecca lifted her head, and opened her eyes, as if waking up from a dream. She saw him there, kneeling on the carpet with the gun.

"…John?" she murmured.

It was her _._ It was really _her_. He couldn't believe it. Rebecca's eyes softened as the detective gasped in relief. The pistol dropped from his hand. They stood, scrambling towards each other and they embraced each other tightly – Hathaway crying gratefully, his wife smiling with love.

They stood there for a long, beautiful moment.

(The camera cuts between angles in rapid succession, zooming in jerkily, as if their embrace is so special IT MUST BE SEEN FROM EVERY DIRECTION. Despite everything, it doesn't ruin the moment. The music is now something out a 1940's epic romance film.)

And now it was the end. The _real_ end. As John and Rebecca Hathaway held each other in their hallway, everything was right with the world. They were both safe. The murders would stop. The zombies were gone forever.

The case was closed.

**THE END**

**A CHARLES KAZNYK PRODUCTION**

* * *

It seems like the movie is finished. But then, abruptly, the black screen disappears, to reveal a boy of about fourteen sitting in a leather armchair. He's wearing a dark grey suit and tie and he sits with one leg across the other, in what he imagines is a relaxed yet sophisticated fashion. His hair is combed back in a way that seems faintly impossible. Behind him is a shelf filled with many leatherbound books, and he's holding one now, open to a page half-way through. Apparently, he hasn't leaned out yet.

The music stops.

The boy looks up. He closes the book. There is a large black pipe in his mouth and now he takes it out, holding it casually in one hand. The whole charade is strangely endearing.

He addresses the camera clearly. "This has been a Charles Kaznyk production," he begins.

A pause, to allow you to digest this information.

"We had such a fun time filming this movie – 'The Case'."

Another pause.

"So much fun that I hope you pick it – for the Cleveland _International_ Super 8 film festival."

Suddenly, a harsh growling noise interrupts his speech. The boy turns as—

"AHH! _God!_ "

A girl leaps into frame from the left and grabs him around the shoulders, latching her teeth onto his neck in an alarmingly ferocious way. It's Rebecca Hathaway's zombie. The boy recoils, screaming as she ravages him.

Soon, he lies still. He slumps back, closing his eyes, embracing the sweet release of death.

The zombie lets go of her prey and turns to the camera. She has long blond hair and her skin is covered with pale, corpse-like makeup. The girl snarls. Her teeth are bared; they're _very_ white. Then, shockingly, she lunges at the screen and—

Dead.

Cut to black.

* * *

With a slight, whispery flutter, the film reel whirrs to a stop. Six grinning faces stare at the blank projector screen.

Cary is first to break the silence, and says loudly: "That was really lame guys."

Everyone turns to face him.

"I'm _kidding_ , I'm kidding! Geez. You guys need to lighten—"

"Cary. Shut up."

"That was pretty good Charles," Preston murmurs. "Well done."

"Thanks… you really think so?"

Joe nods emphatically. "Yeah. It's super great."

Cary snickers. "You mean it's Super _'8'_."

The whole room explodes with annoyed groans.

"Wow, that was terrible."

"Ugh."

"Oh my god. Don't _ever_ make a pun again."

They all glance at the screen, where the projector is throwing flickering shadows on the wall of Charles' bedroom. The words ' _The Case'_ are written in orange on the film's casing.

"We made that," Martin says, almost like he can't believe it. "We _made_ that movie."

"Yeah. We totally did." Charles is smiling a really big smile. "What do you think, Alice?"

She considers her answer for a moment – somewhat critically. "I think it's pretty bad actually," she says. "Not much production value. Except for the scenes with me in them. Those are all good."

A long, horrified pause.

"…You're kidding, right?"

"Yes, of course I'm kidding Charles. The movie's amazing."

Cary sighs. "Oh, come on. How come no one gets annoyed with _her_?!"

* * *

**THE CASE**

**A Charles Kaznyk Production**

* * *

**DIRECTED BY Charles Kaznyk**

**WRITTEN BY Charles Kaznyk, Preston Mills and Joseph Lamb**

**CINEMATOGRAPHY BY Charles Kaznyk and Cary Lee**

**SOUND, MAKEUP AND SPECIAL EFFECTS BY Joseph Lamb**

**COSTUMES BY Martin's dad**

* * *

**STARRING**

**Martin Haverford as Detective John Hathaway**

**Andrew Kaznyk as Witness #1**

**Preston Mills as Mr. President**

**Cary Lee as Zombies**

**Joseph Lamb as Officer Joe**

**Charles Kaznyk as Dr. Peter Bracken**

**and Alice Dainard as Mrs. Rebecca Hathaway**

* * *

**THANK YOU FOR WATCHING**

(and thank you for reading)


	22. A Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None! (Yet.) Together, we venture into the unknown…

He sat alone in a perfectly white room. White walls. White furniture. White floor. Fluorescent light shone harshly from the ceiling. It was the kind of bright, glossy white you might get in a freshly-cleaned hospital, or a science lab, the kind that made everything seem unfriendly and sterile. The room itself was almost completely bare apart from a desk, two chairs and a door.

Joe Lamb sat at one end of the desk. Waiting.

He'd been waiting for about five minutes before the door behind him opened. Someone stepped through, booted feet clicking on the tiles. There was a brief jingle of keys – then the sound of the door being closed again. And locked.

_Click. Click. Click._

The figure walked around the other side of the desk and sat down across from Joe. It was a military officer in an olive green uniform: air force, with a blue beret. He was middle-aged with a round, kindly face, and brown eyes that sparkled with activity. The name on his uniform was 'Forman.'

"Hello again, Joe," Lieutenant Forman said.

Joe didn't reply. The Lieutenant smiled faintly, as if expecting the lack of response. "All wired up?" he asked.

Joe nodded.

"Good, good. Then let's start. Would you like anything before we begin? Some water?"

Joe shook his head.

"Okay. Then… tell me about that night. Tell me what transpired on the night of June 6th." The Lieutenant leaned forwards a little. Joe thought for a moment before answering.

"That afternoon… there was a fire, in the hills around the town," he said. "It was a big one. The military had to come and help control it. In the meantime, everyone was evacuated. I was too."

"And?"

"We went to the Greenville Airbase. We were supposed to stay there until the fire was out."

"But you didn't, did you Joe?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because… because we'd left our dog locked up in the house. Lucy. I wanted to make sure she was okay."

"Good. So you went back. Did you find Lucy?"

"Yes. I let her out."

"And then?"

"And then, I… I went back…" Joe closed his eyes.

"…and then you had an adventure, didn't you," the Lieutenant finished. His tone, previously friendly, now held a hint of menace. "You saw things. Things that might have seemed a little… strange. Things you probably shouldn't have seen. I am going to ask you questions about those things now, Joe, and I hope you remember the right answers."

Joe didn't reply.

"What did you see on the main street, Joe?"

"There was stuff flying around. TVs. Bikes. Anything metal."

"Why were those things flying?"

"…magnetic interference," he said dully.

"Why was there magnetic interference?"

"The military was testing a weapon."

"What was the ship that you saw?"

"An experimental plane. It was carrying the weapon. The cubes were part of it."

One question after another, the officer leaning closer and closer over the table.

"Why did the military capture you?"

"They didn't want anyone near the weapon."

"And officially?"

"They wanted everyone away from the fire."

"What happened to the people that disappeared?"

"I… I don't know."

"You do know," Forman said.

"I…" Joe struggled to remember the answer. "…there was a bear. A rabid bear, in the forest. It was attacking people."

"Good. Why did you go into the tunnels?"

"What tunnels?"

"The tunnels under the cemetery."

"I didn't. I found Lucy, then I saw something on the main street. So I went there."

"What did you see?"

"The flying stuff. Like before."

"Was there anyone with you?"

"There wasn't anyone with me. I was alone."

A pause. Lieutenant Forman took a deep, deep breath, and exhaled loudly in the silence. "Good," he murmured eventually. "Good good good." He said it in a kind of sing-song tone that Joe utterly despised. "One last question, Joe. What did you see?"

Joe took a breath of his own before answering. "I saw… something. Something alive. It was scared."

"Wrong," Forman said curtly.

"Fine. Then I saw an _alien,_ an alien from another planet and I'm gonna run out of here and tell everyone about it—"

"No. You aren't. Or you'll never see your friends again. There was no 'alien', Joe," the Lieutenant said warningly. "There was no monster. In fact, there was _nothing_. Nothing at all. Only a weapons test that went terribly wrong, and that's the truth. Are we clear?"

Sitting there, in that little white room, Joe could almost believe it. The military's 'truth' had been drilled into him so many times that it almost _was_ real. He squinted in the uncomfortably bright light and forced himself to stay quiet. "We're clear," he said.

"Good good good." Forman pushed himself to his feet, his chair scraping the floor. "Stand up."

Joe stood up.

"Shirt off."

Joe took off his shirt. The Lieutenant walked around the table, and peeled off the set of medical electrodes that was taped to Joe's chest. After untangling the thin wires he placed them delicately on the table. Joe quickly put his shirt back on. His chest felt… tingly, from where the pads had stuck to his skin.

The Lieutenant walked to the door and unlocked it with his keys. Freedom beckoned from the other side. Joe met the Lieutenant's gaze warily. For now, the officer's eyes were friendly, but Joe knew they could change in an instant.

"Okay, Joe. Be good," Forman said pleasantly. "I'll see you again on Wednesday."

* * *

Joe stepped through the door, out of the interrogation room. The hallway outside was similarly white – bright, clean, fluorescents lining the ceiling preventing any hint of shadow. The corridor was empty except for a couple of benches lining the left-hand wall.

Sitting on them were his friends: Charles, Cary, Martin, Preston, and Alice. All there. They sat quietly, hands in pockets, looking up, down, out the single tiny window. Anywhere except each other. The air force guards in the corner didn't like them talking.

But still, they looked up as Joe walked by. Charles gave him a quick smile. " _How was it?"_ he mouthed silently.

Joe shrugged. Same as always. He walked past them and sat down on the end of the bench, next to Alice. Their jeans and jackets and scuffed shoes were the only splashes of colour in the long white corridor. At the end of the hall, Lieutenant Forman poked his head out of the interrogation room.

"Cary?" he called out. "You're next. Please, come in."

Cary got up, rolling his eyes. Grudgingly, he followed Forman into the room. The door locked behind him.

Joe sighed, staring out the window, where the sky was free and blue.

* * *

Joe sighed, staring out the window, where the sky was full of stars. He turned over, tangling his sheets; he couldn't sleep no matter how hard he tried.

Every two days, it was the same. He'd be driven to a secure army facility in Springfield – a grim-looking place, with thick brick walls and barbed-wire fences – and he'd be taken past checkpoints, down a series of tunnels, and into the small white room. There, a man would ask him questions. Sometimes it was Lieutenant Forman, sometimes it was someone else, but the questions were always the same: what happened, why did it happen, where did you go, what did you see.

At first, he'd told the truth. About the alien. About everything. They hadn't liked that very much. So then, they'd told him _their_ version of the truth – what they wanted the public to hear. It had been incredibly difficult to cover the Lillian incident up but the air force had somehow managed; now, the crazy sequence of events that had started his summer was, officially, just a military weapons research test that had gotten a little out of control. That 'truth' was all they cared about, so they drilled it into him, day after day, until he could recite it in his sleep (in case _other_ people started asking questions).

Occasionally, they would ask him something about the alien. How it had behaved, what it had looked like. But not anymore. It was almost as if they didn't care now that the creature was out of their grasp.

One month had passed since that incredible week of summer. Life was – relatively – back to normal. Everything was the same as always, or at least as much as it could be. The town had been cleaned up, people went back to work, the train crash that'd started everything had become a distant memory. Still… something was different.

It would always be different.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, though, everything _felt_ normal.

"Lucy! Where are you?"

He heard the border collies running through the house. A second later her head appeared around the kitchen doorway, panting happily. "Good girl! Breakfast time." Joe knelt down and poured a cup of biscuits into her bowl and she bounded over, claws skidding on the tiles.

"Sit!"

She sat. Her eyes were very sad. _That look might work on dad, but it doesn't work on me._

"Shake!"

She held up her paw. They shook hands.

"Okay. You can eat."

She darted forwards and started mauling her bowl, scattering biscuits across the floor. Joe chuckled, shaking his head. Lucy ate every single meal like she'd been starved for a week. He gathered up the biscuits with his foot as she _crunch-crunch-crunched_ , arranging them into a pile.

"…Are you gonna eat something too?" his dad asked.

Joe turned to see him standing by the door, a wry smile on his face. As always, Jack was dressed in his dark navy police uniform; Joe was wearing jeans and a faded orange t-shirt.

"I'm not really hungry," he replied.

Jack frowned. "You should eat somethin'. Breakfast is the—"

"—most important meal of the day, I know." His dad was sometimes a bit predictable. "I'll have something later."

"Well, okay. Just make sure that you do – there's half a pizza still left in the fridge for when you get hungry."

"Sure. Thanks."

His dad paused for a minute, oddly uncertain. "They didn't… do anything to you yesterday, did they?"

"No. Only asked some questions. Like all the other times."

"Okay. So long as it's just questions, I'm fine with it. But tell me if they start doin' anything _weird_ to you, alright? I don't like the fact that they're talking to you without supervision."

Joe nodded. The first few interrogations had made his dad VERY jumpy, but the military hadn't been very accommodating of his concerns. They'd been quite threatening, actually – but they had to be, to get the parents to stay quiet. As Lucy kept eating there was an awkward kind of silence, but nowadays, it was the nice kind of awkward.

"I'm off, then," Jack said eventually. "See you at six. Don't do anything stupid."

 _You too_. "I won't."

"Are you going to be at Charles' place?"

"Yep."

"And Alice's?"

"…Maybe." He couldn't help the blush.

"Okay then. Have fun." His dad smiled, patted him on the shoulder then went to grab his things. Joe poured a cup of orange juice as Lucy finished her breakfast. Immediately, she started begging for more. "No. No!" Joe whispered. He waited till he heard his dad start the car in the garage; then sneakily gave her another handful of biscuits.

Joe stepped outside just in time to see the police car pull out the driveway and rumble off up the hill. It was a beautiful day (most days were, this time of year). The world was utterly filled with colour – green grass, blue skies, red-brick houses, hazy white clouds – and bursting with the promise of freedom. Joe strolled across the yard, surrounded by birdsong and the faint smell of pine trees. It was one of those days that was the essence of summer, the kind of day you wished for when surrounded by three weeks of snow. He started walking up the street to the corner next to Charles' house; he'd dumped his bike there yesterday after they'd been picked up for questioning.

The bike was still there, hidden under a bush. He dragged it out, brushed it off. There was a black beetle sitting on the seat which he sent flying with a well-aimed flick.

"Joe, hey! Wait up!"

Charles, jogging down the street towards him. He'd obviously been mucking around outside and was already sweating hard. He staggered to a stop in front of Joe, bent over to catch his breath. "What's – uh – what's up?"

"Not much, just going into town," Joe replied. "What about you?"

Charles glared at him. "Oh man, don't get me started. I'm looking for my _stupid_ sister."

"Which one?"

"The stupid one, obviously."

"And that is…"

"Jen! It's Jen!" Charles nearly exploded with annoyance.

"Well, sorry, but you have three sisters and sometimes it's a bit hard to—"

"She went and destroyed my top hat AGAIN!"

"She does that a lot, doesn't she," Joe replied.

"I was going to use it for my costume and she _ruined_ it."

"I – hang on, what costume?"

"Amy Louise's birthday party," Charles explained. "It's a dress-up theme."

Joe frowned. " _I_ didn't know she was having a birthday party."

"Well, obviously you weren't invited. Probably because she doesn't really know you."

"And she knows _you?_ "

Charles shrugged. "I was her lab partner in chemistry this year."

"Oh. I guess that works."

Charles paused to catch his breath, slowly reining in his frustration. (Slowly.) His sisters, unfortunately, were nowhere to be seen. Joe looked around, wondering about the time. _I'm supposed to be there by ten_ —

"What are you gonna do in town?" Charles asked suddenly.

Joe blinked. "I'm… going to visit Alice."

"…Oh." His face fell.

It was still kind of a touchy subject.

"You can come too, if you want," Joe offered. "It's not private or anything. We're not doing anything special."

"Nah, that's OK." Charles shrugged. "I have to work on some stuff for my movie anyway."

"Really? Have you heard back from the competition?"

"No, not yet. It should be soon though, and sooner if we won anything… oh god, I hope we won something. Do you think we won something? Joe, what if they don't like it? What if they didn't even watch it? What if it was really bad and the other entries were—"

"Charles, they would've loved it," Joe interrupted. "And besides, those were some REALLY good zombie murders."

"God, I hope so."

Charles had this way of working himself up at the drop of a (apparently ruined) hat, creating storms of worries out of nothing. He was, Joe thought, probably the last calm person on the planet – some things would never change, even after meeting a real-life alien.

Then he glanced at the sun, rising above the trees and realised he should probably get moving. Joe vaulted onto his bike. "The movie was great Charles, I swear. But sorry, but I really have to go. I'm gonna be late."

"Oh. Okay."

"I'll – I'll see you later. I hope you find your sister."

Charles nodded. "Yeah, sure. See you round."

Joe kicked off, rolling down the hill, faster and faster as he went. Charles was left standing alone on the curb before turning back to look for his hat.

"Martin's coming over tomorrow, if you want to come too!" he called out suddenly. But Joe had already disappeared around the corner, the wind loud in his ears.

* * *

He knocked on the door, then stepped back nervously to wait. He was standing on the porch of the Dainard house, in the same place he'd stood when he'd first visited more than a month ago. When he'd come to beg Alice to help them make the movie.

 _The movie._ It had seemed so important back then, but now it was only a footnote.

The house itself was made of dark brick and weatherboard, and sat half-way up a hill on the older edge of town. A small windchime hung next to the door, swinging gently in the breeze; its discordant notes rang out clearly across the overgrown, junk-filled yard. Scraggly bushes clung bravely to the dirt. Clearly, Louis Dainard wasn't very interested in gardening.

And it was Louis Dainard who answered the door, rubbing his eyes like he'd just woken up.

"Who is – oh. It's you."

"Hello, Mr. Dainard." Joe swallowed. Despite everything that had happened, he still felt slightly nervous around Alice's father.

"Hey, Joe. Are you here to see Alice?"

"Yes. If that's OK."

"I'll go get her for you. Do you want to come in?"

"No thank you. That's OK. I can wait."

"Fair enough." He padded off up the stairs, disappearing out of view. Joe waited. He heard a short, muffled conversation, then light footsteps running down the hallway. Two seconds later, Alice Dainard was pressed up against the fly-screen door. Pale skin, blue eyes. Almost like a ghost.

"Hey."

"Hey." Joe's heart did a little flutter. He kind of hated it, but _liked_ it at the same time – the way he felt around her.

Alice smiled. "So are you coming in, or are we going out?"

Joe looked around at the bright summer's day. "Going out?" he suggested.

"That sounds _great_. Where to?"

* * *

The Lillian Heritage Park was located a few blocks from the town hall. Old oaks had been planted there in an irregular grid when the town was first founded, and now, hundreds of years later, they formed a pleasant canopy of shade over a wide green expanse. A few well-tended flowerbeds splashed the place with colour, and a series of stone paths wound gently through the trees. It was quiet. Pretty. A nice place to wander through.

Especially when you had some company.

"I _cannot_ believe we're having this conversation," Joe said as they walked. "You haven't seen _Star Wars_?"

"Star-what?"

"Star Wars! The greatest movie ever made!"

Alice snorted. "Joe, I'm joking. Of course I know what Star Wars is. I just never had the chance to watch it - or anyone to watch it with."

 _Anyone to watch it with_ … He filed that piece of information away for later.

"So Star Wars is pretty good?" she asked.

"It's more than 'pretty good'," he replied. "It's amazing."

"Hmm. It's about that kid named Luke Starchaser, isn't it? And that tall black guy? Darth Wadder?"

"…Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Maybe." Alice grinned. "Have you heard what the others are up to over the break?"

"Not really. Cary's doing some babysitting, I think."

"Cary's doing _babysitting_? For who? Sounds like a poor decision by that set of parents."

"I don't know. He seems to think he's quite good at it."

"Huh."

"And Charles is doing more movie stuff," Joe continued. "He's planning the next one already. It's going to be another monster movie, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Are you… still interested in helping out?"

"Yes, of course I'll be in it. What about everyone else?"

"I don't know. Actually I haven't talked to them, outside of at the base. The military doesn't let us visit much."

"They don't, do they." She shrugged sarcastically. "But of course, the air force knows what's best."

It was nice, spending time with Alice like this. Not doing much, just... talking. Talking about nothing in particular. He wondered what it was called when two people could simply enjoy being with each other, when it felt like they'd known each other forever. (Well, he kinda knew what it was called, and he could imagine his friends pointing and making lots of embarrassing noises at the answer. Why did some things have to be so weirdly awkward?)

"What about your dad," Alice continued, as they skirted around a small pond. Bushy reeds lined the banks, waving gently above the water. "How's that been?"

"It's been good, I guess?"

"Oh, come on, you have to tell me more than that _._ "

"Well… we went out to a restaurant last night. It's like, this French place. In Brookville. It's small, but it's filled with flowers and stuff, and the food's really nice. We went there with mom a lot. She loved it there."

"Do you still think about her?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

Joe thought for a moment. "I do think about her. All the time, but now… it's not as sad. It's more like _remembering_ her, instead of wishing she was back."

"That's… nice," Alice said, searching for a better word.

"Yeah. It is."

Alice was one of the only people he could talk to about that part of his life. One of the only ones who really understood. Charles asked about it sometimes, and there was his dad of course, but Alice… Alice wasn't _afraid_ to ask. That made it better, somehow.

"What about your mom?" Joe said. "She's still around, right?"

"Yeah. She is. I don't know where, though. She ran off while I was still in pre-school." Alice didn't sound particularly torn up about it.

"How old were you?"

"Seven."

"That's… less nice."

"No. But it was so long ago that – that I'm almost used to it." Alice laughed, a little strangely. "Look at us! It's weird, the things we talk about. It's almost like we're _trying_ to be miserable."

"I'm not miserable, though," Joe said. "Are you?"

"No. No, I'm not. I'm pretty happy actually." She smiled beautifully, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. She held out her hand, and he took it. Joe, understandably, was pretty happy too.

"So I saw this movie the other day," he began. "It was called The Life of Brian, and it was REALLY good. It's a bit hard to explain, but basically, it follows a guy who was born on the same day as Jesus, but he was also born _next door_ , so people keep mistaking him for Jesus."

"Like, Bible Jesus?"

"Yeah. Bible Jesus. It sounds weird, but it's super funny. It's a" – he tried to remember the phrase Charles had used – "it's a religious satire. It makes fun of all that stuff, but not in a mean way. It was made in England and there's a bunch of men playing the female characters, and they put on really stupid voices. As I said, it's weird."

"That's… interesting?"

"It totally is. Anyway, I was going to ask if you wanted to go and see it. With me. Maybe. It's really good. Only if you want to though." Joe cursed himself for doing the stumbling-over-words thing again. _Every freaking time you ask her something-_

"Well, let me check my busy summer vacation schedule." Alice picked a flower, examining it closely. "Nope, nothing on! I guess I can go."

"Really? Cool. The movie's rated R but Charles has a friend at the theatre who can get us in."

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Apparently he works there. So… Friday?"

"Friday's good. Thanks for asking, Joe."

"No problem," Joe replied. _Thanks for saying yes._

They walked further up the path, holding hands. They were near the top of the hill, now, and if the trees hadn't been there there would've been an amazing view of the town. The park was definitely beautiful when the flowers were in full bloom. It'd be a good subject next time some poetry was required in English class. (Much less awkward than writing about girls and feelings. Charles had done that once. Joe still cringed at the memory). They passed a bronze statue of Lillian's first mayor – a short man, missing his right ear thanks to a poorly-aimed baseball pitch.

"I saw a movie too," Alice began. "It was called _The Case_."

"Really?" Joe asked with mock surprise. "What was it about?"

"It was a horror movie, about a brave detective who's trying to solve a series of murders. It turns out that there are zombies involved."

"Zombies… oh my god."

"Walking corpses. The living dead. There was a big conspiracy, involving the army and the president. At the end the detective manages to find a cure for the zombie virus, but not before his wife is infected too. He saves her, though, just in time. That was a good movie."

"It definitely _sounds_ awesome."

"But also…" Alice paused. "I think it's a movie about a group of friends who get sucked up into the mystery of their lives. Strange things start happening, and people start disappearing, and for a second the world seems scary. But then they find out that the scary things aren't scary anymore, and that the scary things were just _scared._ It's about military secrets, and train crashes, and small, country town. It's about the past and the future, all at once. It's about a mysterious creature from another world… and a boy who wants to save a girl."

Joe blinked. He wasn't quite sure how to respond to that.

"I'm sorry, that was _super_ cheesy," Alice said ruefully.

"No, no." He coughed. "I think that story's pretty cool."

She grinned a little. Then she leaned sideways, whispering in his ear. "Do you still feel it?"

"It?"

"You know who."

"…Yeah. Every day."

"It's the same for me. It's like a – a corner of my head that's gone permanently dark. Like a feeling that's sealed off forever. That thing _did_ something to us, Joe. Every time I look up at night, I wonder where it went. If he's safe. It's weird to care, right? After everything that happened. But I can't help it." She pointed upward, through the trees, at the cloudless blue sky. Joe turned, following her finger.

"No, it's not weird," he replied. "But I think you might be wondering for a very long time."

"I hope not." Alice sighed. "Although maybe it's better that way."

Joe glanced around to make sure no one was following them. He felt hellishly paranoid as he did, but with the lengths the air force had gone to he wouldn't be surprised if they were keeping tabs on anyone who knew the truth. Of course, there was nobody watching; only a family a having a picnic on the grass. Everything seemed normal (other than the topic of conversation).

And that, paradoxically, was the strangest thing: that _everything seemed normal_. After the momentous events of the summer it felt like the world should've changed. People should've been lining the streets, talking, protesting, reading news stories – whatever. Lillian, with its battle scars, its dead, its half-ruined main street, should've felt gloriously, permanently _different_.

But nothing was. People still went to work, and the shops were still open, and kids were still on summer break. Occasionally people talked about the strange night in June but no one actually thought about it much. After all, most people had been fine. Only those who'd had their houses damaged were particularly upset about the whole thing and here, in the park, it was business as usual. Flowers, trees, birds—

Through a gap in the leaves, Joe noticed he could see all the way into town. In the distance, along the streets by the cemetery, he could (barely) make out half-a-dozen uniformed men. They were trudging up and down the cemetery's fenceline, holding odd-looking scanning equipment: a cleanup crew, courtesy of the air force. A couple of squads were still floating around town, scoping things out, just in case.

So, things weren't _completely_ normal.

He turned back to Alice, and realised she wasn't there. That was weird; he could still feel her, could feel her hand in his, except he was looking right at where she should've been standing and she clearly wasn't there. Only empty air beside him.

"…Alice?" His voice sounded very alone.

All around him, the trees were dead. The trees were dead, stark and black, and the ground was covered in snow.

Not snow. _Ash._

Suddenly, a FLASH:

A rush of imagery

Eyes

Skin

Dark blue

Crawling bodies

A dead world, cracked in two

The skies ablaze

And letters

Terrible letters, scrawled in fire, standing ten feet tall

**TELL THEM**

_tell them tell them Tell Them TELL THEM joe? Joe?—_

"Joe?"

The images stopped. He blinked, trying to get his bearings. He was standing in the park, next to Alice, exactly where he had been.

"Joe, are you okay? You zoned out for a second there." She peered at him him concernedly.

"I – yeah. I'm okay."

"What happened?"

"It was nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just a bit dizzy."

_What was that?_

"Let's go back. We can grab a drink, that might help."

"Okay." Joe nodded, still breathing a little heavily. He could barely think. He needed an excuse. "Actually – I promised I'd go over to Charles' house after this, and I don't want to flake out on him again. Sorry. You know how he is."

' _Tell them?' Tell them about what?_

"Yeah. I guess. Well, you'd better head over there then." She frowned. "Are you _sure_ nothing's wrong? I don't want you to fall off your bike or anything."

"I'm sure," he said, trying to concentrate, not feeling sure at all. Even so, his answer seemed to convince her. "Same time tomorrow?" he asked hopefully.

Alice smiled. "OK. Same time tomorrow."

* * *

When he got home, it was a quiet night in. He had dinner with his dad – lamb roast, surprisingly well-cooked – and they talked about work, and plans, and things that were happening around town. Apparently Izzy had managed to get his insurance to cover the dozen missing car engines, which was one big problem sorted, and a girl had gotten lost in the forest after being separated from her sister. She'd been found, though, so there was a happy ending. Lucy sat beneath the table, nibbling at their feet: _Hint hint. I want more food!_

Afterwards, they sat on the couch and watched TV for a while. Joe and Jack had made a kind of deal: 'watch one of mine and I'll watch one of yours.' So together, they got through half a baseball game, as well as the first hour of James Bond's _Goldfinger_.

Joe found himself getting into the baseball game a bit, cheering for the state team. His dad actually cracked a smile during a few scenes in Goldfinger. Overall, it was a success. They agreed to do the same tomorrow night.

Joe didn't think much of the strange visions he'd seen in the park. It was unclear, in his head, exactly what'd occurred; the whole thing had been an incoherent _rush_ , like a whole night of dreams compressed into a three-second burst. He couldn't quite remember it, really. And besides – he figured he was about due a bit of weirdness. It was surprising that there wasn't more of it around, these days.

* * *

Wednesday. The white room.

"What did you see on the main street, Joe?"

"Things flying. Everything metal. Cars. TVs and stuff."

"And why were those things flying?"

"Magnetic energy. The military was testing a magnetic weapon."

"Why?"

"They wanted to test it in a populated area. They evacuated the town as cover."

"What else did you see?"

"An experimental plane. It was silver. Blue. It flew like a rocket."

"Who's plane was it?"

"The air force's. It was carrying the weapon."

Questions, endless questions, under the bright, buzzing light. Lieutenant Forman leaned forwards, his face cast in shadow.

"What happened to the people that disappeared?"

"There was a rabid bear that attacked them in the forest. It attacked people. Lots of people."

"Why were your friends with you?"

"There wasn't anyone with me. I was alone."

"Why were you in the tunnels?"

"There were no tunnels."

"What did you see, Joe?"

"…Nothing."

* * *

The worst part was that no one believed them. Of course they'd tried to tell people – parents, friends, whoever would listen. No one believed them. Right as the ship had left, bare minutes after it'd faded from view, the military had taken them into custody. Anyone who'd been within Lillian's borders, or close enough to see anything 'incriminating', was brought to the Springfield facility and kept there.

There were questions. Lots of questions. Cameras. Guards. Medical tests too, and strange, humming machines. They were kept in isolation, unable to talk about what'd happened.

But in the end, they were treated relatively well, and week later they were out – free to do whatever they wanted.

Immediately, Cary had nearly driven his parents crazy by telling them about aliens and murders and spaceships. They hadn't believed him; they'd accepted the military's story about the weapons test, aided by some handy monetary compensation. Apparently, Cary was still trying to convince them every day.

Charles tried to tell his folks but had the same result. It didn't help that he had five siblings who ridiculed him every time he brought it up (although secretly, his younger brother believed him, and they whispered about it under the covers when no one else was listening).

Martin talked about the incident with his parents. They sat him down, booked some counselling and murmured something about 'mass hallucinations', which they'd seen programs about on the TV.

Preston never said much to his family. He'd already decided they would think he was crazy, and he was waiting for a better time to show 'em some REAL proof. Like a video, maybe, or a backpack full of classified folders.

Donny thought the whole thing had been a drug-fuelled dream. Now, he was completely sober.

In Alice and Joe's case, they _could_ talk about it, because their fathers had been there too. But Louis Dainard and Jack Lamb didn't know what they'd seen – some kind of flying ship, sure, and a big grey animal, and a whole bunch of soldiers and tanks – but how it fit together was a mystery to them. Joe and Alice had attempted to explain, and their fathers had attempted to understand, but Joe could tell that they didn't really 'get it'. They were more interested in the military cover-up side of things, rather than the trapped alien creature. Children (or teenagers) found it much easier to believe in impossibilities. More valuable, perhaps, were the emotional wounds which had been healed thanks to one impossible creature in particular.

So, ultimately, no one knew what had occurred, thanks to the air force's crushing insistence that everything was fine and dandy. Still, the military didn't like them meeting up, and it'd tried to keep Joe's group of friends separate as much as it could. Joe didn't know why. Maybe it thought they might do a bit of damage, if six people who knew the truth were crammed in one place.

And perhaps they could. Joe sometimes noticed an army patrol car parked on the end of his street – a small reminder not to do anything stupid. He imagined that his friends had cars on the corners of their streets too. Watching them. Just in case.

* * *

They strolled through the park, surrounded by green-tinged beauty.

"You got an A for _history_?" Joe asked, incredulous.

Alice giggled. "Yeah. What's so weird about that?"

"Mr. Gerstmann never gives people A's."

"Doesn't he?"

"It's like he has a rule against it or something. Seriously, I had him last year and I _never_ saw more than a B plus."

"That's you. Not me."

"Yeah, but – I wrote some pretty good essays," Joe insisted.

"I guess mine were better," Alice said teasingly.

"Maybe. He also gave me a ton of extra homework."

"Why'd he do that?"

Joe shrugged. "No idea. Cary says it's because he hates children. And he's a Nazi."

Mr. Gerstmann was a thin, lanky German immigrant who was creeping further and further into his seventies. He taught history and geography with a shock of tangled grey hair and was renowned for being fairly 'strict.'

"Cary doesn't know what he's talking about. If he hates children, why'd he become a teacher?" Alice thought for a moment, then answered her own question. "Although if I taught for fifty years I'd probably hate children too…"

Joe made a mental note that she hadn't discounted the Nazi part.

The Lillian park was much busier today, bustling with life and activity. To the left of the path was some sort of gathering – twenty people standing in a circle, chatting and holding drinks. To the right, a couple of kids were kicking a soccer ball through the trees. School reports had been posted in the morning and were the current hot topic of discussion (or cold topic, for some unfortunate people).

"So how else did you do?" Joe asked.

"Fine," Alice said casually. "Mostly A's and B's. My dad was happy with it, so that's good. It's the first time he's even _looked_ at my grades in years."

"That's cool, I guess." Joe frowned. "But I didn't know you were, like…"

"…smart?" She made air-quotes with her fingers.

"Yeah."

"I'm not. Not really. Not compared to someone like Preston, who probably gets A's for everything."

"He totally does," Joe murmured. "It's ridiculous."

"But I try and make an effort at school. Otherwise, it's almost like you're wasting all those hours you spend sitting in a classroom getting talked at. That's all you need sometimes, you know? A bit of work." She grinned. "And besides, I'm terrible at math. Now – tell me about your grades, Joseph Lamb."

"Uhh… they were alright?"

"I'm sure they were _fine_."

"Well, I didn't fail anything, if that's what you mean." It was odd, how for about three hours after you got them, grades seemed like the most important thing in the world. Then, quickly, they were forgotten in favour of actually having fun with your holidays.

Joe looked down at his feet for a moment, kicking a pebble along the path. He'd gone straight to Alice's house after their 8AM interrogation, since it made the military visits much more bearable if you had something to look forward to afterwards. A couple of ducks were waddling along the banks of the park pond, and when Joe walked past they leapt into the water in a blur of splashing feathers. Shafts of sunlight fell through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the grass.

"I did pretty well in math, actually," he said. "Got an A."

"Wow, that's great. Maybe we'll have to start calling _you_ 'Math Camp' instead."

"No way." He shook his head vigorously. "I am NOT going to that thing. It – it made sense, that's all. All the algebra stuff. Mrs. Shaw was a good teacher."

"Negative-B plus/minus the square root of B-squared minus 2AC divided by 2A equals the solution of the curve…" Alice recited, with extreme boredom.

"Exactly."

"That was _right_?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Ugh." Alice groaned. "Why can't I do THAT in a test. What else did you get?"

"Well… there was a C-minus in Latin. That happened."

"Still a pass."

"Yeah, but I actually tried in that class. It's only because Latin is stupid."

"On that we can definitely agree," Alice muttered. "You know what language I'd like to learn?"

"What?"

"Japanese."

Joe coughed. "'Japanese?'"

"Yeah. Wouldn't that be cool?" Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

"Japanese would be… interesting," he said slowly.

"It would be _amazing_. I'd love to go to Japan one day."

"Wouldn't it be hard though? To learn? They use a different alphabet and everything."

"It might be hard, but it'd be worth it. I saw a book about Japan in the library, and some of the photos… they were really beautiful. And I think it'd be great to spend time in a completely different world."

Joe nodded. He'd never actually thought about Japan much, but it probably would be cool. "Any other places you'd like to visit?"

"There's so many! It's hard to decide. France, obviously, and Spain, and South America, and Egypt, the rest of Africa too, India…"

"That's a _lot_ of places."

"Yeah, but look at us – we've seen barely any of the world. We're kind of stuck here, in Lillian. Or at least stuck in Ohio."

"Lillian's not that bad, is it?" Joe asked.

"Well yeah, it's fine, but there's a whole other _world_ out there. So many other countries!" Alice turned to him. "Don't you wanna explore it? See new things? Just… go somewhere far away and leave everything behind? Like Australia, for instance. When I grow up, I wanna go to Australia."

"Australia? Why?"

"Because it's about as far away as you can get. Literally the other side of the world."

"Australia…" Joe tried to remember what he'd learned. "They have all of those weird animals, right? Like the jumpy things – kangaroos. And koala bears, and platypussies. Isn't it mostly desert?"

"I have no idea," Alice said, "which is the best part: I know almost nothing about it. Wouldn't it be cool to go there and find out? I don't want to be stuck in Lillian my whole life, even if it is a nice town."

Joe could definitely understand where she was coming from, even if he didn't quite feel the same urge to immediately jump on a plane. Alice laughed suddenly. "Hey, Mr. Gerstmann would be proud! We're talking about geography even when we're not at school. What about you - are there any places you wanna go?"

He wracked his brains. "Antarctica," he said eventually.

Now it was Alice's turn to look at him weirdly. "Antarctica," she repeated.

"Yeah. Antarctica."

"Why there?"

"Because it has lots of penguins."

"What?"

"It has lots of penguins. I like penguins."

"That's… different."

"And seals. I really like seals. They're probably my favourite animal. If I was allowed to have a seal as a pet, I would get one in a second. I think Antarctica has lots of seals."

"I'll keep that in mind," Alice replied, smiling.

"I mean, it'd probably be freezing cold, but the seals would be worth it," Joe added.

There weren't very many seals outside of zoos in Ohio, though at least Lillian had lots of birds and insects (plus the occasional grizzly). Their feet crunched on the gravel path as it wound through the oak trees. Distant laughter echoed across the park and he turned, looking for the source, saw a couple of kids he recognised from school playing tag over the hill.

When he turned back to Alice, she was gone.

Joe blinked. He was standing alone on the path. Wind rustled amid the trees, making the shadows sway.

No one was laughing anymore.

He looked up; it seemed to be roughly ten in the morning, the same time as yesterday. Then there was a bullet of pain in his skull, burning hot, and—

a FLASH:

nighttime

something falling

smooth black cylinders plummet to earth/sonic _thumps_ as they hit the ground

eyes

stalk him through a dark forest/stalking everyone

fire, everything was on fire

a pit

but what do you say to the gods of death?

'not today'/that's a promise

and another promise in scratchy letters, ten feet high:

**TELL THEM**

**TELL THEM IT'S**

* * *

Three miles eastward Charles was sitting on his bed, showing Martin his latest filmmaker's magazine. "See? Look! This is exactly what I've been trying to tell you!"

"Okay, okay! Give it here." Martin grabbed the magazine and started reading the article. It was titled ' _Connection & Emotion: How to Get Your Audience Involved in Your Script'._

Charles got up, walked to the window. He ran his fingers along his dusty bookshelf, past stacks of film reels and rolled-up posters. There was a bowl of potato chips on the desk and he bent down and grabbed a handful, munching on them thoughtfully. "Martin, the key is getting the audience to care about the characters. It doesn't matter how good the story is, or how cool the action is, the only thing that matters is that they _care_. It needs to mean something if people are in danger, you know? Like in Star Wars, all the characters are actually really simple – Luke, Obi-Wan, Han Solo, Princess Leia – but we still care about them _because_ they're good characters, and that makes the movie exciting. Or emotional, or funny, or whatever. Martin?" Charles glanced over his shoulder and saw that the bed was empty.

The magazine was gone too. "Martin?... Where the hell did he go?"

Eerily, the sky outside was no longer a familiar pale blue. Instead, it was an ashen grey, like a storm had rushed in or a thick layer of smoke. Charles stepped closer. Suddenly, he had an absolutely _piercing_ headache and—

A FLASH

* * *

"Okay, okay! Give it here." Martin sighed and took the magazine from Charles' hands. He scanned the article quickly: ' _Connection & Emotion: How to Get Your Audience Involved in Your Script'. _The pages were already a little sticky where Charles had spilled his Coke.

Grudgingly, he started reading (he was still kind of tired from staying up late last night, watching TV and eating candy). He scratched his knee for a second, then forced himself to stop - the cast for his broken leg had only come off a couple days ago. It was still quite sore, although at least there were no bones sticking out of it anymore. _Ugh. That was the worst._ Beside him, Charles got up and walked over to the window.

"Martin, the key is getting the audience to care about the characters," he began. "It doesn't matter how good the story is, or how cool the action is, the only thing that matters is that they _care_ …"

Martin tuned him out. He turned the page. Charles was still talking.

Then, suddenly, Charles _wasn't_ talking.

That was unusual. Martin glanced up, and saw that Charles was gone.

He shrugged. _Whatever, he's probably gone to the bathroom or something._ Martin turned back to the magazine, but instantly the world spun and his head hurt and everything went white and FLASHED

* * *

Cary looked down at his baby sister, sleeping peacefully on the sofa. She was clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest, covered by a raggedy, rose-pink blanket. Brooke was still little – she'd only turned four last month – but she had blonde hair and blue eyes, same as him. The same huge smile.

Cary leaned over her, his face right next to hers. He was about to shout 'Boo!' when he thought better of it; instead, he started whispering in her ear.

"You believe me, don't you," he murmured, so quiet you could barely hear. "You believe me about what happened. You think it's _cool_ that a monster came to visit. Don't you, Dumbo."

Her eyes didn't open. She kept sleeping.

"You believe me, Dumbo, even if mom and dad don't. With the aliens, and the spaceships… you know I'm telling the truth. Don't you, little sister."

He stood up. Cary gazed at his sister for a moment, then sighed unhappily. "Or maybe you don't. Maybe you think I'm crazy too." He glanced round the empty, quiet room and was about to leave when the roomed seemed to _shiver_.

Afterwards, it felt different. The same room, but different.

Like a copy.

When Cary looked down, his sister was gone. Before he had time to panic there was a FLASH

* * *

Preston was sitting in a tree, minding his own business when a bird landed on the branch above him. He looked up. It was some kind of weird crow thing, with black feathers and beady eyes. The bird tilted its head, slightly evilly, and gave him a piercing glare.

Preston blinked. He put down the book he'd been reading – _Slaughterhouse Five_ by Kurt Vonnegut – and stared back at the bird.

They stayed like this for a long moment.

Then, eventually, the bird looked away. It squawked irritably and plucked at something in its feathers.

"Take that, bird," Preston muttered. He turned back to his book. It was a good one so far, and sitting in a tree reading was a nice way to spend a summer's day. The pages flipped swiftly.

Then: _Squawk!_ The bird was back.

Except clearly, it wasn't. The branch was empty.

 _Squawk!_ He could hear it, pecking around like it was right in front of him.

Preston put the book between his knees, leaned forward, and swept his hand through the air above the branch. There was a furious squawk and noise like flapping and an explosion of black fluffy feathers.

Except there was _nothing there_. He couldn't see anything, only hear it. It was _super_ weird. Preston frowned, then almost fell out of his tree as a rush of images forced themselves into his brain and FLASHED

* * *

In the park, Alice turned away so she could roll her eyes without Joe noticing. Seals. What was so special about seals? They were basically just dogs that lived in the ocean. Although her favourite animal was pretty stupid too, now that she considered it; who in their right mind would have a thing for turtles—

Suddenly, she felt a kind of emptiness around her. Like the world had changed, somehow; like she was somewhere else. She looked around.

Joe wasn't there anymore.

"Joe? Where are you?"

He was nowhere to be seen – nothing but trees in every direction. The park was empty. Alice frowned. It was quiet. REALLY quiet.

"Joe?"

And suddenly, a FLASH:

night

objects falling

eggs, shiny and black, making the ground shudder when they hit

hundreds of them

bright eyes in a dark forest

hunting them

hunting her

fire, everywhere

and love

but what do you say to gods of death?

'not today.' that was a promise.

and another promise in dark letters that burned ten feet high:

**TELL THEM**

**TELL THEM IT'S COMING**

* * *

The vision ended. Joe fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He closed his fingers around grass and dirt, searching for something to hold onto. Beside him Alice did the same. It was dizzying, sickening, the world spinning around them and he saw her shake her head, eyes shut, trying to think. Trying not to vomit.

"What _was_ that?" She sounded like she'd just run a marathon.

"I, I don't know. I don't know." Joe struggled to breathe.

"What happened? Did we black out or something?"

"I don't know." Joe coughed, finally managing to get some semblance of composure. "It was like… I saw things. Pictures."

"Yeah. I saw them too." Alice looked up, confused. "Why, why would – what were they?"

"Fire," Joe said. "Things on fire. And eyes, in the dark. Something falling. A pit."

"That's… that's the same as me. But—"

They stared at each other in the sunny green park as if the world might fall out from under them at any moment. Behind them, the trees echoed with laughter as children played in the sun.

"And words," Alice said. "I saw words, too."

"Yeah." Joe nodded. _Words and a promise._

"…What was that, Joe? What happened to us? What the hell did we see?"

He had absolutely no idea.

* * *

Friday. The white room. Thoughts whirling in his mind.

"Why did you go back to Lillian, Joe?"

"I wanted to find my dog. Lucy."

"Did you find her?"

"Yes, I let her out."

"Then what happened?"

"I went to the main street because I saw something in the sky there."

"What did you see?"

"It was strange. Things were flying, anything made of metal. Like they were being sucked up."

"Where? Why?"

"There was an air force plane above the water tower. It was carrying a magnetic weapon."

"Good, Joe. That's good." Lieutenant Forman leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath. "I think we're getting somewhere."

Joe waited quietly.

"Do you think you could do something for me, Joe?"

He shrugged. The Lieutenant glanced at him, a calculating look in his eyes. "Joe, I want you to think about you did, really hard. And then I want you to—"

**TELL**

**THEM**

Joe blinked. The words disappeared.

They'd been there, though. They'd definitely been there. Abruptly, Lieutenant Forman pressed a button on his neck. He tilted his head, like he was listening, and Joe realised he was wearing a small plastic earpiece.

When he stopped listening, his expression was… cautious. "Joe. What happened?"

"What? Nothing."

" _Something_ must have. Your heart rate just tripled for about three seconds."

He was suddenly acutely aware of the electrodes taped to his chest. "I – I don't know. I just panicked for a second."

"What triggered it? Was it a memory?"

"No, no. It… it was the light. It's really bright. I've got a headache." He pointed at the ceiling.

"Hmmm. Alright." Lieutenant Forman appeared to accept the explanation. "Butt you have to tell me if you feel anything strange, okay? Anything at all."

Joe nodded.

"Anything at all, Joe. It's important. Now, where were we…"

* * *

Joe stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. He was sweating. His friends were sitting on the bench in the hallway and immediately turned to stare, eyes filled with worry. Martin squinted, cleaning his glasses. Cary fidgeted in his seat like he'd eaten a whole bag of sugar. And Alice… Alice just watched. Quietly concerned.

 _"We need to talk,"_ Charles mouthed.

Joe nodded. _"Not here_."

He walked past the guards and sat next to Charles, then leaned over slightly and whispered something in his ear. "I'll call you tonight. Make sure the batteries are charged."

"What?" Charles muttered. "The phone doesn't need any batt – oh."

* * *

Joe pressed the transmit button of his walkie-talkie and prayed that Charles would answer.

"This is Joe, over."

He was sitting at home, on the floor in the lounge. Lucy lay on the carpet next to him staring blankly at the TV; she seemed to like it for some reason, and would bark furiously whenever another dog appeared. His dad was still in the kitchen, eating dinner. He'd arrived home early for a change thanks to a quiet day at the station.

"Charles, this is Joe. Pick up."

A crackle of static, then a disembodied voice: _"I hear you, Joe. Over."_

 _Oh, thank God._ He let out the breath he'd been holding."Hey Charles."

_"Hey. What's the plan?"_

"The plan is to meet up. I didn't want to use the phone just in case."

_"In case of what?"_

"In case they're listening."

Joe imagined Charles pacing acoss his bedroom. _"…You realise that's a Dr. Woodward level of paranoid."_

"Is that bad?"

_"No, it's great! Preston was telling me the other day that he thought our phones were bugged. They're watching us, to make sure we don't talk."_

"Joe, who're you talking to?"

He whirled around. His dad was standing in the lounge room doorway, a bowl of stew in hand. "No one," he replied quickly. "Testing out the radio. I think it's broken."

Jack nodded. "Okay. Tell me if you need a hand fixing it – we've had to mend a hundred of those damn things at the station."

"Thanks. I will."

His dad left. Joe turned back to the TV, gave Lucy a comforting pat. "…Charles? You still there?"

_"Of course I'm here, dumbass. You were saying something about a plan?"_

"Yeah. I want us to meet up, in person. Tonight."

" _Tonight?!"_ Charles' voice exploded from the speaker. Joe winced.

"What's wrong with tonight?"

 _"Don't you remember the_ last _time we tried that? The day after they let us out? When the army found us, they separated everyone, then handcuffed me and stuffed me into a truck. Handcuffed! In a truck! Like – like I was being kidnapped! It was AWFUL."_

"They didn't do anything afterwards, did they? I thought they just brought you back to your house."

_"I didn't KNOW that at the time. I thought they were gonna kill us and dump our bodies in the ocean!"_

Joe thought for a minute. "…There aren't any oceans around here, though?"

" _THAT DOESN'T MATTER! It was – ugh. Whatever._ " Charles sighed. _"Joe, we should talk. I saw something super weird the other day and Martin did too. Hurry up and tell me about this plan of yours."_

"OK, OK. Are you alone?"

_"Of course I'm alone, dumbass."_

"Then listen. 'Cause this is what we're gonna do."

* * *

Joe crouched in the bushes, listening for movement.

 _Can't hear any_. He crept forwards, quiet as as a mouse, skirting the side of the house to where his bike leaned against the wall.

_"Hey dad. Is it okay if I stay over at Martin's tonight?"_

_"Uh – sure. Did you ask his parents?"_

_"Yep. They said yes."_

_"Then I suppose that's fine. Want me to drive you?"_

_"No, that's okay. I'll ride. I'll be back tomorrow morning."_

He watched carefully for any conspicuously-parked army vehicles. Ideally, his friends would've had similar conversations to ask if they could sleep over. (Of course, no one was actually staying anywhere – Martin was supposedly heading to Preston's, and Preston to Charles', and Charles to Joe's in a huge ring of white lies, but in reality, they were all heading to a certain secret meeting spot. Hopefully the deception would work.)

Ah! There it was: a dark green jeep parked on the corner, half-hidden behind a house. He peered at it, trying to see if anyone was inside but the jeep was too far away. He crouched down. If no one was looking he could easily make it to the bike. The night was dark enough to hide in, and countless games of hide-and-seek had made him pretty good at sneaking around.

Heart beating fast, he snuck forwards, grabbed the bike, then wheeled it back into the shadows.

No sudden lights piercing the darkness. No shouts of alarm.

Joe grinned. He opened the back gate; there was a small, overgrown alley between their house and the neighbours', which led the entire way down the hill into town. He stepped through, shutting the gate behind him. It squeaked slightly as it closed. Then he jumped on his bike and started pedalling, riding towards the Lillian water tower.

Houses passed by on either side. Yellow light shone from back windows as families prepared for bed. The trees all around were dark and shadowy, his tires crunching on fallen leaves and sticks. Riding through the night with nobody around, there was a unique sense of being _alone._ Alone amongst the stars, as the town quietly slept.

He gently applied the brakes to slow down, reaching the end of the alley. After checking the street, he turned right, going further downhill.

When Joe thought about the vision he'd seen in the park, it simply didn't seem _real_. It felt like something that would happen in dream. The flashes of emotion, the images, the way the world flashed and vanished… it wasn't right. It was un-real.

The alien was gone. Things weren't supposed to be weird anymore.

He rode past the school, gates shut for summer. Then the park, then the cemetery, both silent and deserted. He was about to reach the more populated streets when another bike peeled out of the darkness next to him. Its rider was short, wearing a light brown jacket.

"Joe!" Cary hissed. "It's me!"

"Hey."

"This is exciting, isn't it? Sneaking around again."

"Yeah." Joe smiled; it _was_ kind of exciting. "It's good to see you."

"Aww, seriously? That's so sweet."

Joe snorted, and Cary giggled. At least one other person had made it. They rode together down the hill, then up towards the next crest. The first car Joe had seen drove by, headlights flaring in the night, playing muffled music as it growled past. A minute later they whipped around the corner, onto the main road that ran through town - side by side, standing on the pedals.

It was the first time he'd been there at night since the incident. The army had cleaned up fairly well, even if the shops were in varying states of disrepair. Some had doors boarded up, still waiting to be reopened. Others seemed good as new, neon signs hanging from their windows. Olsen's Cameras was one of the unlucky ones, its shelves conspicuously empty.

Soon, they reached the rebuilt water tower – basically identical to the old, with same circular shape (maybe a little taller), painted a similar shade of blue. After the military had removed the old tower's collapsed frame, a complex operation involving several enormous construction cranes, they'd scanned the remains for scraps of left-behind technology. Upon finding none, the new tower was erected and connected to the water supply in less than a week.

He was thankful to see that the others were there already, standing by the fence with their bikes. Joe and Cary skidded to a stop before them.

"Hey guys."

"Hey."

Charles gestured at the tower. "We going up?"

"Yeah." Joe smiled. "We're going up."

They stashed their bikes in the laneway by the grocery store, then walked to the gate in the water tower's fence. Martin yanked on it. The chain rattled. "It's locked," he said unhappily.

"Don't worry, I can pick it," Cary piped up.

"What? You can pick locks now?"

"Yeah, it's easy."

"… _How?_ "

"Martin, you have _no_ idea how bored I get during the holidays. Especially when I'm not allowed to see you guys. Come on, out of the way." He shuffled over to the gate and pulled a small bag from his pocket; fished through it for a second, then took out a couple of thin picks.

The fence was kept closed by a padlock and chain. Previously they would've simply climbed over, but now there was a thick skein of barbed wire at the top (an unpleasant new addition). Joe glanced nervously up the street but there was no one in sight. Lillian was basically dead after 11pm anyway. Cary crouched by the lock, making clicking sounds and muttering to himself.

"Okay, got it," he said eventually. He pulled the chain free, and the gate swung silently open.

It felt good to be together again.

They filed through, Charles leading the way. A ladder led up the central 'leg' of the water tower, like the ladders you saw on antennas or high-voltage power lines, thin rungs surrounded by a barred metal cage. Charles scrambled up onto the tower's concrete pad and grabbed the bottom rung.

"Up?" he asked again.

Joe nodded. "Up."

Charles started climbing. The others followed, Martin first, then Preston, then Cary, then Alice, and (finally) Joe. Everybody waited for the person in front to get a few metres' head start beforehand. It was a tall ladder. It wouldn't be fun to fall.

They ascended steadily, metal trembling a little with their movement. It was just enough to make Joe anxious; he glanced up and saw Alice's shoes ahead of him, then the bottom of the water tank thirty yards distant – a dark, black circle. He gripped the metal firmly, not looking down.

"Hey, Math Camp! Hurry up!"

"Shh, I'm trying!" Preston hissed back. "I'm not the biggest fan of heights, alright?"

"Oh. My bad."

Up and up, higher and higher as the ground fell away beneath them. A minute later, Charles reached the top of the ladder, pulling himself onto the landing. It led to a walkway that skirted the bottom of the water tank: this ended in another short ladder which led to the top of the tank itself. He ducked under a piece of pipe and started moving along the catwalk, shoes clanging on the metal.

"Charles," Martin called out.

"What?"

"Don't look down."

"I hate you." Charles gripped the railing tightly. Thirty metres up, there was a stiff breeze gusting around tower, and the ground was clearly visible through the grating below his feet. Nevertheless, it was only a short walk to the second ladder and soon enough he was climbing that too. The others all followed in a weird kind of conga line, one-by-one clambering onto the walkway. Joe trailed a couple of feet behind Alice, muscles shivering from the climb. It was difficult to see anything in the shadow of the water tank and he nearly tripped, catching himself, heart pounding.

Alice turned around. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

He tiptoed cautiously along the catwalk. The second ladder was much shorter, bolted to the side of the tank. It too had a metal cage around it so at least you couldn't fall back – still, Joe was acutely aware of the empty air all around.

"Hey guys, hurry up!" Charles shouted. "The view's amazing!"

Martin agreed a moment later. "Oh yeah. Look! You can see my house from here."

"Martin, you can see _everyone's_ house from here."

"I KNOW, Charles, I'm just saying."

The top of the water tank was shaped like a shallow dome, easily flat enough to stand on. It was about ten metres in diameter and impressively large up close, its edge bounded by a low metal safety railing. When Joe reached the top the others were already standing in the middle, at its peak, marvelling quietly at the view. He took a second to catch his breath, then walked over to join them.

The view _was_ amazing: Lillian was situated in a valley and this had to be one of the highest points between the surrounding hills. The whole town was spread out below, an endless series of dark rooves and sloping streets. Warm light glowed from a hundred windows, accompanied by the buzz of distant streetlights. Pines and firs stood starkly in the night, in rows and clumps all the way to the edge of town, then forming into thick forests on the hillsides. Some of the trees were as tall as they were and swayed gently in the breeze. The cemetery was visible a few hundred metres distant, and the school, all the familiar landmarks he knew and (mostly) loved – and yes, there was his house on its gently curving road, about a finger's-width from Charles'.

Suddenly, he realised the group was looking at him expectantly – waiting for him to tell them what to do. He still wasn't quite used to being a leader.

"So… how are you guys?" he asked cautiously.

Charles: "I'm good!"

Cary: "Great."

Martin: "Alright."

Preston: "Roughly seven and a half out of ten?"

Alice: "It's definitely cool to see everybody."

Another pause.

Then Alice giggled.

"What's so funny?" Charles asked, frowning.

"You guys look so – _worried_ ," she said. "Like you've forgotten how to act round each other. Joe, should we sit down?"

"Yeah, sure."

Her words seemed to break whatever ice there was, and soon everyone was smiling and bickering again, just like old times. They sat in a circle near the edge of the tower, facing each other across the cool, dark steel. Stars twinkled in the cloudless evening sky. Even from up here you could hear the crickets chirping, and smell the fresh scent of the forest.

Preston's eyes flicked nervously to the railing a few feet away. "Is being up here entirely… safe?" he asked.

"Why would they put a ladder on this thing if they didn't want you to climb it?" Cary retorted.

"Yeah, well, I just don't any of my friends to fall to their deaths. That would ruin my entire vacation." Preston thought for a moment. "Even more than it's been ruined already."

Charles rolled his eyes. "No one's gonna fall, Preston. Unless you push them."

"I'm still going to stay away from the edge, if that's OK with you. Why did we have to meet here, anyway?"

Everyone turned to Joe again.

"I just wanted to…" He trailed off. It was difficult to explain. "…it's about the alien, I guess. I wanted to remember."

"'Remember?'" Charles echoed.

"Yeah. To remember everything that's happened. I feel like – we should, somehow. We haven't really had a chance to talk yet, not since that night."

"AND you wanna talk about those freaky visions, right?" Cary added. "Because I'm guessing everyone saw those—"

Heads bobbed around the circle.

"—and they were seriously SUPER weird. And scary."

"Well, that too," Joe said. "But… we already sort of know why, don't we? Why we saw that stuff."

They did. Or at least, they had their suspicions. Everyone was quiet, thinking about what they'd seen. There was only one thing in their minds that possibly could've caused it.

 _It was him_ , Alice thought. _It has to be_. She realised how similar it was to what she'd experienced in the tunnels beneath the cemetery. The 'flash' did feel a little different, though; instead of information being passed _to_ her, it felt like it'd always been in her mind, but was only now being unlocked. _A dark corner of your head, unknown, sealed away…_ it didn't make sense. Only she and Joe had touched the alien, so why had the others received the same strange dream?

Martin spoke suddenly. "It's really shitty, how we're not allowed to meet up."

"Yeah," Charles answered. "Why do we have to sneak around like this? I miss seeing you guys together."

"I miss you too, Charles."

"Shut up, Cary. It's so _stupid_ though – why are they keeping us apart? It's not like we can do anything to mess up the air force's plans. We probably couldn't even if we tried."

"It is dumb," Joe agreed. "But at least we're here now, right?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Speaking of remembering… do you guys remember the train crash?" Martin asked. "That first night we were filming?"

"How could we ever forget?" Preston muttered.

"Everything was completely normal, it was going great, then suddenly it was all on fire, and crashing, and exploding, and there was so much dust and smoke we could barely see each other, and then we thought Alice was dead—"

"What? You thought I was dead?"

"Briefly," Joe interrupted.

"And then I vomited, and then we found Dr. Woodward, and he pulled a gun on us, and then we had to run away from the military… man, that was insane."

"Yeah," Charles said. "Totally. And then we had to figure out what the heck was happening. That was fun, too."

"I seem to remember _you_ didn't want anything to do with it," Preston retorted.

"I did, but - I just didn't want to get into trouble with the air force."

"And how'd that work out for you?"

Charles made an unpleasant face.

"The evacuation was weird," Cary continued. "Everyone in the town, all… gone. Loaded up into those buses."

"Yeah. And then we snuck out and broke into the school," Martin added. "We snuck out. And _broke into the school_."

Joe shrugged. "At least we never got into trouble for that part. They last guy who did it got expelled."

"Honestly, I think people had bigger things to worry about," Preston said, "for example, how half the town was shot to pieces. Oooh! And there were also Dr. Woodward's tapes—"

Cary nodded. "Man, when I first saw that alien I was so freaked out."

"And then the air force came and arrested us. That was gnarly."

"Oh my god, and then that thing attacked us in the bus!"

"That guy tried to shoot it and got crushed to death for real—"

"Yeah, I remember everyone screaming and going crazy and the whole bus tipping—"

" _I_ remember being kidnapped by an alien monster," Alice interrupted. "And, you know. Nearly being eaten."

They fell silent, exchanging slightly guilty looks.

Alice sighed. "We shouldn't remember this as some kind of fun adventure, that's all. We almost died. People _did_ die _._ I thought… I thought maybe I would, down in those tunnels."

A month later, with a bit of distance, Joe realised it did feel like an adventure in his memory. The terror, the sadness, the desperation… it all faded with time. Maybe it was a coping mechanism to only remember the happy ending and not the pain required to get there. Some good had come out of it, and some amazing moments he'd remember forever - but not without a cost.

"You're right. I don't think it was much fun for most of us," Joe said.

"Definitely not," Preston echoed.

"Like the bus. That was terrifying. Really."

"I remember driving into town and seeing those tanks," Cary said. "When one of them was chasing after us, I saw it drive right through that playground. Crushed it like paper. That was scary."

Charles nodded. "Yeah. The rockets, and the bullets, and the soldiers. Not knowing what was happening, like you could be shot any second. That was bad. And when Martin broke his leg – that was the worst part. We were sitting there in the ruined house, everyone was screaming, and I was trying to help but…"

"…but my bone was sticking out of my leg," Martin whispered. "My bone was sticking out OF MY LEG."

"Then we went down into the tunnels," Cary said quietly. "Joe and me. It was dark."

Joe nodded. "Really dark. And – I thought you were dead too."

Alice stared at him. It was strange, saying it out loud.

"The creature was there, leaning over you. I thought we… I thought we were too late. I thought you were gone. I can still remember how that felt." _And I never want to feel that again._

Around the circle, in the darkness, the others were little more than shadows. It was hard to see their faces, how they were feeling – you could only tell from their voices. Up there, on the tower, it was like their own little world. Warm, quiet, far away from everything else. The sky seemed immense.

"But there were some good things too," Joe continued. "Because we found you. Right?"

Alice smiled faintly. "Yeah."

"And we're still alive."

"Yeah."

"And we found out that some things… some things aren't so bad after all."

It was simple, when you put it like that.

"We should have _died_ ," Preston murmured.

 _But we didn't_. "Did you bring the stuff?" Joe asked him.

"What stu— oh." Preston took off his backpack, started rummaging around inside. Eventually he found what he was looking for. "Here." He passed a few circular reels to Joe; a stack of paper followed.

Cary's eyes widened. "You brought it _here_? What if they find us?!"

Joe shook his head. "They won't." … _I hope._ Two film reels and a dozen manila folders: every piece of hard evidence they had confirming the alien's existence. At first glance, it was a very small pile.

Alice grabbed one of the reels, turning it over in her hands. "Have you guys got a flashlight?"

"Better." Charles opened his own bag and took out a couple of torches, then a small black box that looked a lot like a film projector. It _was_ a film projector, in fact.

"Charles?"

"Yes Martin?"

"How are you going to power that thing?"

"Well, you know the concept of electricity? People also invented these things called 'batteries'. My projector can take batteries."

There a minute of muffled grunting and rattling as he tried to set it up in the dark. Soon enough, he had it ready, and made a tiny makeshift screen by leaning a sheet of cardboard against his backpack. It'd do. Alice handed him the film reels, and he took one out of its cover and slotted it in; then pressed the projector's 'on' switch.

Immediately, the film whirred to life. An image appeared on the screen, small and dim: Dr. Woodward's classroom at Lillian Middle School. The view was jerky, out of focus, but you could see two soldiers discussing something at the back of the room.

"Oh, this was me," Preston realised. "You can skip this part, it's not that exciting. Where's the sound?"

"For sound we'd need speakers, and they _don't_ run on batteries."

Silently, they watched the movie. Its grainy, flickering colour was the only source of light on the water tower, revealing calm stares and contemplative faces. The two soldiers were still talking. In the meantime, Joe handed out flashlights and a couple of the folders.

When Cary turned his on it was suddenly, alarmingly bright.

"Hey, be careful with that thing!" Charles hissed, shielding his eyes. "We don't want anyone to see us."

"Stress less, man. No one's gonna see us." Still, Cary pointed the flashlight downward, making it a little less obvious from the ground. He opened his folder – _'Care and Containment: Procedure Guide #2'_ – and started flicking through. Soon they were all looking at their own folders, sitting in a soft circle of torchlight. The only sound was the soft rustle of paper.

Joe read through the first document. It was written in exacting military language, cleanly typed, and described an operation in the 1960s which had been designed to capture the alien: Operation Argus. Lots of talk about Soviets, and fallback plans, and 'classified directives.' It would've been dry reading, if not for the fact that it clearly stated that aliens existed (and that the US military had attempted to keep one). That was definitely newsworthy.

On the projector, the scene changed. Now, it showed the alien in the street, when they'd run into it almost by accident. It stood in the middle of the road, clear. Frozen. Gazing at the camera. Alice was slightly visible to the side of the frame and she stepped forward bravely, reaching out, and— it bolted, leaping away over the rooftops. The camera whirled, trying to follow, but lost it in the darkness.

They did remember. Reading through the documents, seeing it play out on that piece of creased cardboard… it was real. All of it. No matter how strongly people tried to say it wasn't. Alice read about experiments, tables and tables of data, while Martin read interview reports from the Argus project researchers. (Dr. Woodward was one of them. It was eerie to be reading a dead man's words, to hear his old biology teacher's voice in his head.) Cary and Preston glanced through photographs of the alien's wrecked ship, a strange, smoking shape that'd crashed in the middle of the desert.

"Guys, look," Charles murmured. The film had reached the chaos on the main street, cubes and metal zipping through the air. The alien's ship quickly formed on top of the water tower – exactly where they now sat – as legions of soldiers watched in astonishment. The camera ducked and whirled, attempting to capture the strangeness of what was occurring.

Together, they remembered the alien, climbing towards its ship.

They remembered the air force shooting it down.

They remembered trying to protect it, and how weird that had felt.

They remembered it disappearing into the stars.

Some remembered rediscovering the only family they had left.

"We found _alien life_ ," Martin breathed. It was an awe-inspiring thing. "We found it, met it. _Us_."

"Yeah," Preston said. "And it was intelligent."

"And friendly," Alice said firmly. She still believed it the most.

On the screen, the alien's ship faded into the sky, indistinguishable against the stars. The camera swiftly panned across the street, documenting the mayhem: soldiers, wreckage, collapsed water tower. One final shot of an officer sprinting towards them, gesturing wildly. Then – _click_ – the film ended.

There was a long, expectant pause.

"We could blow this whole thing wide open," Martin said thoughtfully.

"What do you mean, 'blow it open?' Charles asked.

"I mean _tell_ people. Tell 'em the truth." He gestured at the folders, the film reels. "The best part is we can prove it, too. What happened to us isn't a small-town thing… it's huge. People deserve to know what this means."

Alice nodded. "They do. Regardless of what the air force thinks."

"Because right now, it's like nothing took place at all," Martin said. "Everyone's going about their normal lives, when…"

"What?" Cary asked.

"I'm not sure. They should… they should _know_ , that's all. We should figure out a way to tell them."

Martin pointed at the sleeping town as a dog barked in the distance. In an hour or two, Lillian would be asleep, except for the most dedicated TV-watchers and the night shift at the steel mill. For a while, it would be quiet. Then, in the morning, the town would arise, ready for another day – butchers, bakers, bus drivers, boilermakers… busy, for a time, then calm once more. Life went on.

"Everything was crazy, and now it's like nothing actually mattered," Martin continued. "The air force is trying super hard to cover it up, and even _they_ don't know what happened, really. Everybody else definitely doesn't. Then a month passes, everything's fine, and suddenly we start getting weird visions in our heads?"

"Yeah, about that…" Joe began. _It's probably time to discuss the NEW weirdest thing in our lives._

"I was hanging out with Martin in my room," Charles explained, "and then for some reason we couldn't see each other anymore. As if we'd vanished. And then there was this _flash_ , and – pictures. Lots of pictures. It was incredible."

"It was the same for me," Preston said. "Around ten-thirty yesterday morning."

Cary grimaced. "I was babysitting my sister, and - _bam._ I was super dizzy afterwards, too. Felt sick. Like a dream, except real, like I was…"

"…alone?" Alice suggested.

"Yeah. Like I was alone suddenly. As if everybody else in the world was gone."

 _So it happened at the same time_ … "Alice and I saw the same things, too," Joe said. "What about you guys?"

They went around the circle, trying to sound brave. It was a little freaky with the night all around them.

"I saw a fire. A huge circle of fire, rolling outwards, like from a bomb," Preston said.

Cary shivered. "I saw eyes. Lots of eyes. Just floating in pitch black."

"Things falling to earth. Similar to those seed pods you get on trees," Charles offered.

"Like eggs?"

"Yeah, exactly."

Alice nodded. "I remember feeling I was being hunted. Or not _hunted_ , maybe, but… that feeling of running, of being scared."

"And a pit," Martin added.

"And words." Joe took out a pen and paper and tried to write the words as he'd seen them in his head. It was hard to convey how harsh, how all-consuming it had seemed. Eventually, he settled for big, scratchy letters, all caps, frayed and jagged: 'TELL THEM / IT'S COMING.'

When he held up the paper everyone recognised the phrase. Already, it was seared into their memories.

Martin laughed humourlessly. "It even says to 'tell them'. See?"

"But why? Why would we see this stuff? Why would it be the same for all of us?" Alice asked.

"Maybe we're insane," Preston suggested. "Maybe we're imagining this meeting right now and in reality we're locked up in a mental asylum."

"You wish," Cary retorted.

"Hey, YOU should've been locked away years ago for pyromania. But being serious, it _could_ be some kind of mass hallucination. We all went through the same thing—"

"Exactly," Charles interrupted. " _We all went through the same thing_. The creature was chasing us, we were close to it. Maybe that affected us, somehow."

"Like – like a virus or something?" Martin asked.

"No, I mean like in the head. Mentally."

"Oh, so IT made us crazy. That's _so_ much better," Cary said.

Alice frowned. "No, I think Charles is right. He must've done something to us – changed us. That's the only explanation I can think of. I mean, we can't _all_ be crazy. I don't feel like I'm losing my mind. Do you?" She turned to Joe.

"No. At least, I don't think so," he said cautiously. "It makes sense, in a way. We could be the only people in the entire world who got close to it and are still alive."

Now _that_ was a sobering thought. No one wanted to dwell on it too much, because it sounded like it was probably true.

"There must be a reason," Charles continued, pointing at the folders. "And whatever that is, it's probably in here. There might be a clue about what those visions meant – or at least an explanation for _why_ we saw them."

"And if the answer isn't in there?" Martin asked.

"Then we'll find out someplace else! There has to be more information out there, right? The air force must have a whole bunch of secret facilities devoted to this stuff…"

"We got lucky _once_ , Charles," Martin said. "I don't think we're supposed to go sneaking into military labs. We aren't ninjas."

"Yeah, well. It was just a thought."

"Tell them it's coming…" Alice murmured. "Tell who? Tell them what? We have some evidence, but people will still think we're lying."

Joe nodded. "We don't even know _what's_ coming. It sounds bad."

They paused, imaginations running wild. If the messages were because they'd been in contact with the alien, then almost anything might happen. Martin had an unpleasant thought about hordes of giant spiders invading the earth and shivered. _Anything but spiders._

"I wanna find him," Cary said suddenly.

"What?" Charles asked.

"You heard me. I wanna find that stupid thing – creature, alien, whatever it is. That lump."

"Finding it would certainly solve many of our problems," Preston said. "…and probably create a whole lot more."

"Whatever. Then we could just ASK it what the hell this means."

"Yeah, but how?" Charles said. "That thing flew off into space. _L_ _ook at all those stars_ – how are we supposed to know where it went?"

They looked up. There were a lot of stars.

"It could be a billion miles away by now. And I don't know about you, but I _don't_ own a spaceship."

"I do," Alice said quietly.

Charles did a double-take. "…You own a spaceship?"

"No, I mean I want to find them too."

"'Them?'"

"That alien was one member of a species. There has to be others. Somewhere up there, there's a whole planet of them."

Joe remembered what he'd learned, from the creature in the tunnels. There _was_ an alien planet – along with countless other worlds. He didn't know how he felt about that. _An entire planet of those things…_

"Still," Martin murmured, "what are we gonna do? The monster left. We can't chase after it. The military have everything under lockdown."

"I don't know what we should do," Joe replied. _But I think I want to find it too._

"We'll find a way," Alice said. "If we want to."

"Well, I want to," Cary said firmly. "I don't know about you guys, but I demand an explanation."

Preston nodded. "Likewise. So I guess I agree on principle, even though I have no idea what we're doing yet? _…_ Hm. Perhaps this is a bad decision—"

"I'll help out," Charles interrupted. "Let's do it. It'll probably be fun, right?"

"Fun?" Martin groaned. "You guys really didn't learn _anything_ , did you."

They shrugged helplessly.

"Ugh, fine. I'll come, as long as I don't have to break any more bones."

"You didn't technically 'have' to last time, Martin."

"It still really hurt!"

"I'm in," Joe said quietly.

"And me," Alice said. "Whatever happens."

They fell silent. _Whatever happens._

Wind moaned around the water tower, and Joe shifted slightly on the metal. Stars twinkled high above, the town spread out far below. One by one, the lights were blinking off as the hour tended towards the new day. When he'd picked the tower as a meeting spot, Joe hadn't chosen it because it was secretive, or for the amazing view – he'd picked it because it was the last place place they'd seen the alien in the flesh. By sitting up here, he'd hoped they might feel a little closer to it. A connection, of sorts, to Lillian's monster.

And the group's decision felt like an important one. Not only that they would keep moving forward, digging into the mystery ( _digging our own graves_ , Joe thought darkly), but also making sure they'd stick together. The experiences of that first week of summer would connect them, probably for the rest of their lives – it felt like they had a duty to see things through to the bitter end.

Charles thought so too. "Let's make a pact," he announced.

"What's that?" Cary asked.

"It's like a promise, sort of. But more important."

"Suuuure. Whatever man."

Charles glared at him. "Just because I have a reading age above six years old—"

"Charles, what did you have in mind?" Alice said patiently.

"Um, well." He glanced around. "It might be better if… I don't know. If we do something. Like hold hands."

"Uh, no Charles, I'm not holding your hand," Martin said firmly.

"Just _do_ it, Martin. God."

"Okay, okay." They all shuffled inwards so they could reach each other comfortably. Joe took Alice's hand in his left and Preston's in his right. She gave his fingers a quick squeeze and he smiled at her in the darkness.

"This isn't weird at _all_ ," Preston whispered.

Martin shivered. "Cary. Cary. What are you doing to my hand. WHAT ARE YOU DOING—"

"Shhh! Guys, calm down." Charles gazed around the circle with his best _be-serious_ face. It was oddly effective. "Now, we're going to make a promise. A promise to each other. You don't have to say anything, but remember what I tell you, okay?"

They nodded. Charles cleared his throat.

When he spoke, his voice was clear in the warm evening air. "We promise to make sure that the truth gets out," he began. "We promise to tell people what happened, and show them everything we know. And we're going to keep on trying until the whole world learns the truth. Because… it deserves to. Otherwise, the lies'll win, and we can't let that happen."

He paused, thinking for a second. The wind whispered in the trees.

"…We also promise to find out what's affecting us. We're gonna figure out what it means. Do whatever it takes. We'll learn if there's anything else living in this universe, and if we can, we're gonna try and find it. Which sounds hard, but whatever. We also promise to stay alive, and – and not die, and see this through till the end. But, most of all…" Charles looked each of them right in the eye, and they all looked squarely back. "Most of all, we promise to stick by each other. We're going to do everything we can to help each other out. All of us, in this circle, we're gonna keep each other safe and stay together no matter what. Because we're friends. We're _friends_ , and we're in this together. And supporting each other is what friends do. Alright?"

Joe nodded firmly. _Friends._ One by one, everybody agreed.

An owl cooed somewhere in the night, a cool, peaceful sound. Joe looked around the circle again: Cary, his braces glinting in the moonlight. Martin, his face oddly naked without his glasses. Preston, silent and solemn, lips pressed to a thin line. Alice, her hand still warm around his. Charles, head high, his eyes stern and clear. Joe felt, somehow, that he was a part of them – like they were a part of him. Like everything was connected. A breeze touched the water tower, making it sigh, and he thought: _this is a beautiful place._ The owl cooed again. It was almost as if he could fly with it, brave, graceful, away into the sky. Down below, the first swirls of mist were settling on the rooftops, pale and sweet and liquid.

"I guess we should go. Get back to our parents," Charles said slowly.

"No." Joe shook his head. "No, let's stay. It's nice here." _And we haven't had a chance to do this for a while._

They dropped their hands, breaking the circle. Cary looked like he was about to say something; then shrugged, climbing to his feet. Gradually, the others followed. No one felt the need to say much. Charles and Martin started packing up the projector. Preston walked to the edge of the tower and gripped the railing tightly, gazing at the sleeping houses.

"Come on," Alice murmured.

She led Joe over to the other side of the water tank. There, she knelt, touching the smooth metal. "This looks like a good spot."

"For what?"

Alice didn't answer. Wordlessly, she stretched out and laid down on her back – head towards the center of the tank, feet towards the edge. Her hair fanned out around her head, gold streaks in the shadows. Joe smiled, crouching, then went to lie down next to her. The metal was chilly against his bare skin. He took a deep breath, shifting till he was comfortable.

They didn't even have to talk, really – simply being close was nice. Lying beside each other, watching the stars. Feeling each others' presence. He tilted his head sideways for a moment and saw Cary walk past along the railing; Cary noticed him lying there, then raised an eyebrow at who was lying next to him.

Then he winked. "Go for it, man!" he whispered. "Don't worry, I won't look."

"What?"

"You know what I mean."

Cary smirked. Joe blushed. He turned to look at Alice, and saw that she was grinning at him too. They stared at each other for a moment. Understanding.

But it wasn't the right time. Not yet.

Instead, Alice leaned back, gazing into the night. There were _countless_ stars up there; some big, some small, some faint, some bright, all twinkling together in the endless void. She raised a hand and pointed lazily at one of them.

"Do you think someone's watching us from up there?" she asked. "Right now, at this moment?"

"I hope so," Joe murmured.

"Why?"

"Because it's nice to think we aren't alone."

"Yeah." Alice smiled. "It's nice, isn't it."

Joe looked up, his heart filled with warmth, and wondered if something was looking back.

* * *

(Something was. Many things, actually.)

* * *

Upon the very top of the Lillian water tower, six people waited in the dark.

Cary thought back on the promise they'd made and how much it absolutely terrified him. He could still remember how he'd felt in the tunnels under the cemetery. It wasn't something he'd easily forget. Making a promise to go _looking_ for things like that didn't seem like such a great idea… but as Charles had said, they were in this together. No matter what.

Preston dangled his feet over the edge of the water tank in some kind of attempt to analyse his fears. It wasn't helping. He was still extremely anxious about falling, despite how hard he clutched the railing. Really, what scared him was the thought that he _could_ fall rather than any logical probability of it happening. So instead, he looked up, trying to find constellations in the stars.

Martin polished his glasses with his sleeve, blinking as he rearranged them on his nose. Suddenly, the world became clear again – detailed, sharp, and beautiful. He looked around at his friends, standing on top of the tank, and thought about how great it was to have a sense of purpose again. Something besides just making a movie. Something real. Something _important_.

Charles sat with his back to the hills, watching over the town. He knew Joe and Alice were lying behind him and did his best to ignore them. It was hard not to feel a little jealous… or betrayed, perhaps. But that was a bad thought. He fiddled with the film reels, spinning them round and round, and remembered how he and Joe had always been best friends and how they always would be.

Alice stared upward, gazing into nothingness. She was thinking about her father and their strange, weird relationship – how it'd been bad, then worse, and now so much better. Not perfect, obviously, but… better. Maybe the best it'd ever been since mom left. The strangest part was who she had to thank for it: a creature from another planet. Life was weird, wasn't it?

Joe lay next to the girl he really, really liked. No, seriously. He really liked her. A _lot_. And sitting with her, and with his friends, in the town he'd grown up in… he was happy. He really, really was. Wind, stars, and a water tower: an oddly perfect combination.

Then he noticed, absently, that he was holding his pen in his hand; and that he'd written something on his skin without quite realising it. He held up his palm in front of his face, squinting in the dark.

' _Tell them it's here,'_ it said, in messy blue handwriting.

_What?_

Joe frowned, and wondered why he'd written it.

Whatever. It could wait till morning.

Together, they stayed there for a very long time – friends, bound by a promise. They stayed there until the first rays of dawn touched the hilltops, and the sky was tinged with a dusty rose-pink glow. Until the light painted their faces in pale fiery colours and the town began to wake.

And then, finally, it was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… how was that? It was hard to set up a new plotline in one (enormous) chapter while simultaneously making it an epilogue of sorts, but I think it didn't go too badly. Basically, I wanted this to be a believable continuation but with enough differences to make it unique, which is a difficult balancing act to pull off. Hopefully it worked (and hopefully you're interested in reading more)!
> 
> As for what's next, there's two things. First, some editing: going through the early chapters and improving them, then adding extra lines of dialogue from the script that were skipped in the movie. (As of 2016, I still haven't finished this. Oops.)
> 
> Then, I'll start planning for the sequel! I don't know how many people still read Super 8 fanfic – it's definitely less popular than when I started – but I'd love to write more. (Sneaky 2016 edit: I did write more. SO much more.) And, if you're interested, you're welcome to contribute ideas! That's basically my sneaky way of admitting I have no idea what I'm doing.
> 
> Finally… even though A Sky of Starlight is "only" a novelisation so far, I am genuinely happy with it. It's been a great way to practice my writing, and I hope you guys got some enjoyment out of it too. Thanks for reading! Until next time…


	23. Friends and Fireworks

* * *

_'_ _I remember it like it was yesterday. We heard from NORAD that three contacts had come in from the Canadian border, and we were scrambled to intercept. No idea what they were at the time – except that they were fast, real fast – but one of them was slower than the others and we managed to get a lock on it over the Huron forest. Still no idea what was happening, or why we were out there. My wingman got off a missile and suddenly the thing started screaming like a banshee – that's right,_ screaming _– and emitting a real bright light. Blue. Bright blue. Blinding, even through the cockpit. The missile hit, though, thanks to either God or pure dumb luck, and the contact went down somewhere in the trees. Left a big scar on the hills. Then we were called back to base. No explanations, no nothing. I only heard later that there was a school camp group in the area at the same time, and I suppose they were the first ones who found the wreckage…'_

**\- An extract from the interview records of USAF Captain Adam Ryckert, December 17th, 1985**

* * *

 The night was thick with clouds overhead: a flat grey blanket that trapped the day's warmth and made the moon loom yellow over the horizon. In the middle of the yard, Cary knelt on the grass, fiddling with his newest creation. He took the fuse and stretched it taut between his fingers.

A match flared in the darkness. The flame danced and flickered, and hissed as he touched it to the string.

It caught. " _Yes!_ " He dropped the match and leapt to his feet as the fuse raced onwards. Cary sprinted across the yard to where the others were waiting, crouched under a tree. "Move over, move over." He skidded and sat between Martin and Alice and turned to face the fire—

—works! _Whooosh!_ The first one shot up out of its cradle and arced into the air, trailing sparks all the way.

"Woah…" Charles breathed. They followed its path with their eyes, heads tilting back. The firework flew, higher and higher, so far up it seemed like it would pierce the clouds. Preston clamped his hands over his ears in preparation.

And then it exploded: a bright burst of light followed by pure blue embers, and an almighty _CRACKKK!_ that rattled the air in their chests. Alice squealed. Joe grinned, sitting next to her. The clouds glowed in a rush of fading colour. But that wasn't all… the fuse was still snaking along the grass, coiled up round and round until it hit the end of another firework that _whooshed_ up a second later. This one exploded about half-way up, sparkling furiously, and the world shone red and gold.

And so Cary's fireworks show began, painting the sky with memories of summer.

* * *

His parents had organised the party for the last day of summer break. With only a few hours of freedom left, it felt like they all needed one final chance to unwind – especially considering the 'interesting' events of the past couple months. Cary's house had a large wooden deck out the front and a long table had been set up on the patio, piled high with food. Parents milled about, chatting, drinking, drawn together in that way adults are when their children become friends. The dads oohed and aahed as the fireworks continued overhead, gathered around the barbecue and the smell of sizzling steak. The mothers were just relieved that none of their kids had burnt their fingers (or, heavens forbid, lost a finger altogether).

"I'm amazed the neighbours didn't complain, Sandra," Mrs. Haverford said. "The noise—"

_CRACKKK!_

_"_ —and the smoke, it's quite extraordinary."

Cary's mom laughed. "Oh, they don't mind. They're used to loud bangs coming from our house by now. And besides, who doesn't enjoy a good light show?"

"I suppose." Martin's mother was a dumpy, protective woman who couldn't help being a little uneasy about the influence 'that arsonist boy' was having on her son. Their faces were bathed in a pretty purple afterglow. "Where did you get the fireworks? Aren't they expensive? There must be dozens of them."

"Nearly a hundred," Sandra replied. "But it's not too hard when your husband owns a pyrotechnics business."

"Oh – of course."

"And law enforcement is very accommodating when you're friends with their boss… isn't that right, Jack?"

Sheriff Jack Lamb gave them a slight nod. "The police department's turning a blind eye tonight, ladies, so young Cary over there can have all the gunpowder he wants. Well, not _all_ the gunpowder he wants, that'd probably kill the lot of us, but – you know what I mean." He smiled. "It seems only fair after the town missed out on the 4th of July, on account of it being shot to pieces by armed forces at the time."

"Don't remind me! '4th of August' doesn't have quite the same ring to it, though."

"Still, it's something." Jack glanced at Cary, who was making some more adjustments to another fuse. "You've got a very talented kid there, Sandra."

"Why, thank you. I only wish he'd put a bit more of that talent into his maths homework."

_CRAACCKKK! Hissss…_

One of the fireworks soared above the pines and spat green sparks in every direction, with a sound like TV static amplified ten-fold. This caught the attention of the most recent addition to the group: Louis Dainard, sitting back in a garden chair and nursing a cold beer. The other parents weren't quite sure what to make of him and he was surrounded by a small circle of silence. For now, that suited Louis just fine. Across the yard some of the other kids were playing soccer – Charles' siblings, Preston's brother, Martin's tomboy of a sister – and every few minutes there would be a shocked gasp as the ball drifted _real_ close to the fireworks stand. The thing having the most fun, though, was probably the Lee family cat. It huddled beneath the deck and stared at the sky in pure feline panic, hissing violently at everyone who walked past.

Joe and the rest were around the side of the house, where there was a big trampoline between the washing line and a couple of trees. Cary was currently bouncing on the fabric, bubbling with nervous energy. The others were happy enough to stand by and watch.

"Dude," Charles said.

"What?" Cary replied.

"Dude, your cat."

"What about it?"

"I think it's going insane."

"Charles, shut up. My cat is _fine_."

"No, Charles is right," Preston said. "I tried to pat it earlier and it almost scratched my arm off."

"Guys. Guys. The cat's used to it." Cary's hair flopped over his eyes and he brushed it back with one hand, still bouncing. "Trust me. Pac-Man's cool."

"I can't believe you actually named your cat Pac-Man," Martin said.

"Why not? Pac-Man's awesome."

"But Pac-Man isn't a cat!"

"He's more like an abstract, amorphous representation of pure and insatiable hunger," Preston added.

"School starts _tomorrow_ ," Charles interrupted. "Save it for English class."

"Yeah, Preston, save it for—"

"I think Pac-Man works," Alice said. She'd been leaning against the side of the house, and now stepped forwards. "Pac-Man likes eating things, and your cat likes eating things too. I'm guessing, obviously, but… it does look pretty fat."

Cary gave Joe a flat stare. "Dude. Your girlfriend just insulted my cat."

Joe blinked. "Umm…"

"Your girlfriend. Just insulted. My cat."

"But – but Alice isn't – and your cat's—"

_CRACK! Cra-crack!_ Three fireworks went off in quick succession: blue, red and green. Joe blushed.

"Soooo… school tomorrow, huh?" Martin said, coming in with the save.

"Yeah, stuff that. We should get an extra YEAR off after what happened to us," Charles murmured. He started climbing onto the trampoline.

"What're you doing?" Cary asked.

"I'm getting onto your trampoline."

"OK, dumbass, I can see that."

"Good. Well, that's what I'm doing." Charles stood up.

"But why—"

"Just start jumping."

Cary gave him a suspicious look but soon leapt upwards, bouncing into a front-flip. Joe felt a tap on his shoulder and then heard Preston whisper in his ear: " _He's gonna double-bounce him_." Joe nodded. Alice heard too, and grinned. Because Charles was nearly twice as big as Cary, the extra weight on the trampoline would be able to launch him high into the air.

"Hey Charles," Cary said between jumps, "Since Joe and Alice – are a thing now – are you like – super sad?"

"You do _not_ know when to stop, do you," Charles replied.

"And we aren't a 'thing'," Joe said. "We're friends."

"So is everyone looking forward to ninth grade?" Martin said desperately.

"Sort of," Preston said. "I think it'll be interesting."

"We're all friends," Alice added. "Even with you, Cary."

"Ouch."

"You're welcome." She smiled sweetly.

"Hey, Cary."

"Yes Charles?"

"Have fun." And with that Charles leapt sideways off the edge of the trampoline, right before Cary landed from his bounce so that they hit the surface together, which stretched lower and lower until it almost touched the ground… then sprang back up again with enough force to throw Cary _way_ too high. At the same time one of the fireworks launched in the yard, sparking out of its cradle and spiralling beautifully into the night. Cary went flying two, three, four metres into the air, arms flailing, eyes wide. The firework speared upwards. Charles was already giggling, curled into a ball as Cary reached the reached the top of his jump – somehow higher than the roof of the house – and then began the terrifying journey down. It looked like Cary hadn't bounced straight up and was falling to the side, spinning and spinning, searching for a handhold. The firework flashed. He reached and barely missed the clothesline in awful slow motion.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHH! Shit shit shit shit shit—"

_CRACKK!_

* * *

Cary lay in the corner of his bedroom, curled up in the foetal position. He clutched at his groin like it was a bag of diamonds, except that the diamonds were on fire and also covered in ants. He moaned softly.

"Wow. I mean, I've always wondered… does it really hurt _that_ much?" Alice asked.

Cary gave her an accusing stare. "Are you a boy?"

"No."

"Do you have balls?"

"No!"

"Then don't talk. It frickin' HURTS."

"Okay! Okay. Can we… help with anything?"

"No. Unless you feel like punching Charles for me."

Charles raised his hands. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean for that to – for you to land like that. I'm really sorry. That was bad. And don't forget, I can sympathise."

Cary moaned again. "I guess I did get you extra bad, that one time on camp."

"Yeah."

"You were crying afterwards."

"What? No I wasn't—"

" _Please_ don't bring that up," Martin interrupted. "That entire thing was like the 'Empire Strikes Back' of camps. Everyone was either betrayed, or put in prison, or got one of their hands cut off."

"Umm…" Alice gave Joe a 'please explain?' look.

"A few months ago there was this phase where all the boys would go around trying to hit each other in the – in the – you know. It got pretty bad. School camp was a nightmare."

" _Why_?"

Preston shrugged. "Adolescent males trying to assert their dominance? Or maybe boys are just stupid."

"Oh, trust me, girls are terrible too," Alice replied. "You should see some of the stuff that happens in the bathrooms. It's bad news."

"Speaking of bad news," Charles began, "I got a letter from the movie competition that we entered…"

Everyone turned to face him. "When!?" Joe asked.

"A few days ago."

"What? Why didn't you tell us?"

"I was waiting for a good time!"

"This totally isn't a good time," Cary groaned.

"So, did we win?" Alice asked.

"I bet we didn't," Martin replied. "The zombie plot made absolutely no sense."

"Weeeellll…" Charles paused. "We did win _something_. Wait here." He got up and ran out the door.

Cary's room was surprisingly neat. The bed (which Martin and Preston were sitting on) was well made, with a plain bright red quilt. Alice sat at his desk – empty except for a small telescope and some of the military props they'd used during filming. The shelf was stacked with books and magazines, a whole row of National Geographic mixed in with assorted Marvel comics. Cary lay on the cream-coloured woollen rug, which Joe had also taken a seat on, and the only real mess was by the wall under the window, where a few piles of unidentified (probably dangerous) powder were scattered on the floorboards. At the foot of the bed was a water dish and small basket for Pac-Man. The most interesting thing was the big poster that hung on one of the pale green walls.

Half a minute later Charles came running back, an envelope in his hands. "Drumroll please." Joe obliged by stamping his feet on the carpet and Charles pulled out the letter with a flourish.

It wasn't a letter, but a certificate:

**OHIO YOUNG ARTISTS FUND: AMATEUR FILM CONTEST**

_**ENCOURAGEMENT AWARD** _

**Charles Kaznyk**

"We did get something," Preston murmured. "Good work, Charles."

Martin didn't seem impressed. "An encouragement award? That only means they saw our entry and felt sorry for us. They give those out to everyone."

Joe silently agreed with him. _After my mom died, I think I got an encouragement award every week at school for about three months._

"'The Ohio Young Artists Fund has elected to honour you with an Encouragement Award in our annual amateur film contest'," Charles recited. "Your film, THE CASE, demonstrates talent and enthusiasm from those involved, and with some more work and refinement we look forward to seeing your future productions. The judging panel was especially taken with the fine acting on display from your young cast and your innovative special effects. Sincere congratulations, the Ohio Young Artists Fund."

"That sounded… decent," Alice said, surprised. "They liked the acting."

Cary had recovered enough to sit up. "Yeah, that's cool Charles. We were never going to win anyway."

"You said it yourself," Joe added. "The whole production value thing, how we're competing with sixteen year olds, with better cameras, better scripts…"

"Yeah, I guess. I thought we had a shot though, I really did."

"I'm just happy we finished it," Preston said.

"I'm just happy it's over," Martin shot back.

"Martin, I never _forced_ you to act in my movie."

"Charles, you totally did."

"Whatever. You enjoyed it."

"…Maybe. Sometimes. Some of it was cool."

"So you guys know what this award means, right?" Alice interjected.

"…No?"

"It means we have to make another movie."

There was a pause.

"Another movie," Martin said flatly.

"Another movie!" Charles said excitedly.

"I don't even want to _think_ about a movie project until first term's done," Preston said.

"Can it be sci-fi this time?" Joe asked. "I really want to try out the alien makeup."

"I'm in as long as there's explosions," Cary replied. "Was that predictable? That was probably predictable. But seriously guys, let's get out of my stupid room – we can talk about it later. We're supposed to be having fun, remember?"

* * *

Cary ushered them out into the hallway. As they left, Alice couldn't help but take a closer look at the single poster on Cary's bedroom wall. 'DON'T BE STUPID' it said, in big black letters; below was a drawing of what looked like a burning building, with a cartoon sad face next to it. For some reason, she felt she'd seen something similar previously. _Weird._

Charles was the only one left in the hall, following the others as they rushed outside.

"Charles! Wait!" she called out.

He turned, surprised. "What's up?"

"I wanted to ask you something. You know that poster in Cary's room?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering what it's for."

Charles looked away, a little uneasily. "You should probably ask him about that. Not me."

Alice frowned uncertainly. "Okay…"

"Basically, Cary has a 'problem' where he often does things without thinking about the consequences. And sometimes – sometimes that ends badly." He sighed. "I guess he won't mind too much if I tell you. Remember that story on the news last year, where there was that house that burned down near the school?"

"I think so."

"Well, that was Cary's house."

"Oh."

"He was making a sparkler bomb and it got out of hand. _Really_ out of hand. He was home alone with his little sister, and there was a fire, and… I don't know. He won't talk about that part. They got out, but the house was wrecked completely, so they moved to this place around Christmas. I think the poster is a reminder."

"We all need them, sometimes," Alice murmured.

"Yeah. But don't tell him I told you."

"I won't." She paused. Charles stood ahead of her in the darkened hallway, his face half in shadow, and she could see the worry in his eyes. It suddenly struck her how vulnerable he seemed; he was always trying to be strong, and loud, and a leader, but the past month had affected everyone equally. In the end, they were just a bunch of people who'd been thrown together, who now cared for each other, and maybe it was Charles who cared the most. "Hey, Charles…"

"What?"

"I just wanted to say that you're a great friend."

"Uh – thanks."

"And I'm really glad you asked me to be in your movie."

He smiled. "I'm really glad you said yes."

"So am I. It's been super fun. And… you should be very proud. Everyone likes you, you know? You're brave, and smart, and nice. But I guess… what I'm also getting at, is that…" Alice trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"…is that Joe's nice too," Charles finished for her.

"Yeah." Her voice sounded very small.

"That's okay," Charles said. "Joe's my friend too. We'd better go outside, everyone's probably wondering where we are."

"Yeah. Sure."

* * *

As he sat in his chair, sipping his beer, Louis Dainard realised that he didn't actually _know_ any of these people. Barely knew their names. He'd seen a few of them around town, in passing, and he vaguely recognised their kids, but – after Evelyn had walked out, he'd stopped wanting to see people (or maybe people had stopped wanting to see him). He'd lost his friends. Others had moved on. The only remainders were one or two work buddies, the regulars at the bar, and…

"Mind if I put my feet up?" Jack asked.

He glanced upwards. Jack didn't wait for an answer and dumped his chair next to Louis's, sinking into it with a contented sigh. "Those Kaznyks sure do talk a lot," he muttered.

"Seems like it," Louis agreed.

For a moment, both men were content to sit and hold their drinks. They had a nice view of the Lees' backyard: dry flowerbeds, a rough brick path, the grass sloping gently downwards to where it met the water. The property was on Lillian's outskirts, in a new block that backed onto one of the small rivers that ran through the hills. A faint smoky haze remained from Cary's fireworks (and the burnt patches on the lawn would probably stick around for weeks).

"Say, Louis… where're you from, originally? I never thought you were a Lillian native."

"I'm not. We moved here about eight years ago."

"From where?"

"Massachusetts."

"Hmm. Can't say I've ever been there. Nice place?"

Louis shrugged. "Sure, it was nice enough."

"Nice enough?" Jack spread his hands. "C'mon, you gotta give me a little more than that!"

"I don't know – I guess the weather was alright? Too crowded for me, though. In the cities."

"Okay, fine. Anywhere before that?"

"Virginia, but only for a of couple years. Nice landscapes." Louis pointed his beer at the hills. "A bit like here."

"Huh, interesting… So you've moved a fair bit, then."

"Sure," Louis said, smiling a little. "Why the questions all of a sudden? You lookin' for a place to run away to?"

"No, no, of course not. I'm curious is all. You're a very mysterious person, Louis."

"You might think I'm mysterious, but there isn't much worth knowing about me."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. _Everyone's_ interesting if you know what to ask 'em."

At that moment, Alice walked by, closely followed by Charles. It looked like they were walking down to the river; the others were already standing near the bank. Her hair glowed silver in the lamplight.

"You must be proud of her," Jack said.

"She does OK. She works hard."

"That's all you can ask for, isn't it?"

"I s'pose. But she's becoming more like her mom every day," Louis replied.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I… I don't know." He shook his head sadly. "Both, probably. But every day seems to pass quicker than the last, and before I know it I feel like she'll be gone."

"I feel you," Jack agreed, "It's the same with Joe. I guess we'd all better start thinkin' about the future…"

* * *

Joe dipped his toes in the river. It was warm, even after the sun had gone down, and the water was black and calm in the moonlight. "Feels pretty good!" he called out.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Martin asked. "There could be alligators in there."

"Or sharp sticks, or rocks. I think that's more likely," Preston said.

"Woooooohh!" Cary sprinted past in a blur and whipped off his shirt, and before you could say 'don't be stupid' he cannonballed into the water. Joe spluttered as the splash hit his face. "Hey!"

Cary swam out to the middle, then came up for air. "Come on, guys! It's great!" he shouted. "I swim here all the time, the bottom's really smooth! You can stand the whole way!"

The river was only around ten metres wide, and the banks had been cleared of overhanging trees and grass. Joe caught Charles' eye, who shrugged as if to say: _Have you got a better idea?_ There weren't many good swimming spots around Lillian, and the night was warm enough to make a dip sound very attractive. Cary kicked his feet and launched a huge spray of water at them. "Retards! Hurry up! Are you coming in or what?"

At that, the boys began taking off their shirts. Shoes were thrown into a pile a couple of metres from the shore, together with watches and bits of gum and other assorted pocket-rubbish. Preston had apparently been carrying around half a fortune in dimes which he promptly dumped on the grass.

Joe noticed Alice standing silently behind him. "You're not coming?"

"I, uh… I kind of need a swimsuit." She grinned. "I'll be fine. Besides, _someone_ needs to tell the adults where you are."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Thanks." He paused. "Are you sure you—"

"Joe, it's okay. Have fun." She reached out and flicked his chest, then started walking up the hill to the house.

_Huh. That was weird._ He stood for a moment, thinking.

Then he stepped forward and dived into the water, just in time for the biggest splash-war that Lillian had ever seen.

* * *

"Boys, huh?" Peggy Kaznyk said.

"Boys," Alice said in agreement.

The two girls sat next to each other on the grass, looking down at the river. The centre was a shadowy blur of water and movement; it was hard to see exactly what was going on, but it was definitely producing a lot of laughter (and the occasional swearword).

Charles' middle sister was not impressed. "Ugh, they're so annoying. You're fourteen, right?"

"Yep."

"Well, I'm twelve. Does it get any better?"

Alice thought for a second. "It depends. I mean, girls, boys, they're all people – you just have to find the right ones."

"Hm. I see." Peggy turned gloomily back to the river, and the stars, and together they contemplated the mysteries of the universe.

* * *

Joe ducked under the water, twisting around. Someone was following him but he didn't know who. Probably Charles. His feet brushed across the bottom, feeling the pebbles worn smooth by the river, then he jumped upwards and launched a huge splash behind him.

The sheet of water hit Charles square in the face. He coughed and flailed his arms in retaliation. "Aah! That was NOT fair!"

"Totally was." Joe gave him another splash for good measure and dived back under. It was impossible to see anything in the water at night, but you could at least tell where people were from the waves. He swam forwards for a couple of metres, broke the surface and was immediately attacked from two directions.

"Ow!" He covered his eyes and spun around, realising that come up between Martin and Cary. They were, as usual, having a small disagreement.

"Suck on this!" Cary shouted. He chucked a few rapid-fire shots at Martin.

"Suck on your _self_!" Martin shouted back. "Actually, that sounds kinda gross—" Even without his glasses Martin was quick enough to dodge and retorted with a splash of his own. Joe was caught in the crossfire and had to retreat, jumping back. He turned around and saw Preston off to the side, who hurriedly raised his hands.

"No no no no no, I'm on your side. Truce?"

Joe shrugged. "Sure, truce. Wanna help me get Charles?"

"Okay."

Then he saw Preston's eyes go wide, heard a _rush_ behind him and a huge weight slammed into Joe's back. He barely had time to gasp for breath before it pushed him under. Arms wrapped around his chest. Joe struggled in the water, trying to slip free, but Charles' grip was too strong and they both fell to the side, floating, spinning, surrounded by bubbles. Then another weight hit – Joe guessed it was Preston – and the impact separated them and sent him spluttering to the surface.

"Charles, that _hurt_ ," Joe said, coughing.

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Sorry," he grinned. "Does that mean I win?"

"Nope, not even close."

A few metres away Cary was pushing through the river, chasing Martin towards the far bank. Despite his best efforts, he was falling behind, thanks to Martin's longer legs. "Hey – wait – come back here!" Then, suddenly, he stopped dead in the water. "Martin…" he said quietly.

"What?"

"There's a leech on your back."

"…no there's not."

"I'm serious."

"Knock it off, Cary!"

"No, I'm serious! It's right there!" He did sound unusually grim.

Martin stopped swimming and reached behind him worriedly. "I can't _feel_ anything there… uh, guys? Is he lying?"

Joe and the others rushed over excitedly and spent a long, thoughtful moment staring at Martin's back, floating in the middle of the river. His skin was pale in the moonlight.

" _Ew_ ," Charles muttered eventually.

"Gross," Joe agreed.

"What is it?" Martin asked. "Guys, what is it?"

Preston frowned, leaning closer. "I'm not sure… but if it's a leech, then it might be the biggest leech I've ever seen—

"AAAAAHH! Get it off, get it off!"

"Martin, calm down! Stand still and we can pull it off you!" Charles shouted.

"Stand still? You want me to stand still while this thing is SUCKING my BLOOD?" Martin jumped up and desperately started trying to wipe his back. Cary was already being very helpful and had collapsed into fits of laughter.

"Hahahaha! Hahaha!"

"Charles, get it off me!"

"I can't pull it off if you're jumping around like that! Joe, could you help?"

Joe swam forwards and grabbed Martin's arms. Charles swept his hand back. Preston winced at what was about to come. "Technically, I don't _think_ I lied _,_ " he told himself.

"Martin, hold still. I'm getting it off, alright?"

"Okay, okay, hurry up—"

Charles leaned forwards and slapped Martin as hard as he could right between the shoulderblades. It sounded like a thunderclap. Martin pitched face-first into the river, and came up a moment later spitting water and clutching his back.

"Ow! OW!"

Cary fell over laughing again. "Haha, I can't believe you fell for it! That was mint!"

Martin turned on him with sudden anger. "Cary, you asshole! You're such an asshole! Why would you DO that?"

"Because it's funny? Hahahahaha!"

Charles' red handprint was perfectly outlined on Martin's skin. Joe imagined the mark would probably stay for a couple of days; the sound had been super loud. Martin definitely looked pretty furious. But the sound… that _clap_ brought to mind a weird sense of déjà vu, as if he'd heard it before, but—

And suddenly Joe was somewhere else: _A forest. Dark pine. The air smells of wet, decaying leaves and burning plastic_

_It is silent._

_Then: a supersonic_ crack _as a light screams across the sky. It sounds like a thunderclap, like the world breaking in half. Startled birds leap from branches into flight. The afterimage of the light sketches a path behind his eyelids._

_Then: a flash on the horizon. The trees shiver, as if they are alive, and afraid._

And that was it. Joe blinked. His view returned to the shadowy riverbank, where Martin was enthusiastically pretending to drown Cary like a rat. The smaller boy giggled uncontrollably while making half-hearted attempts to get away.

"Hey, everyone," Joe said, "I was wondering… has anyone seen anything weird recently?"

Martin paused, his hands around Cary's neck. "You mean like freaky visions of an alien invasion?"

"Um – yeah, exactly."

"Nope."

The strangling resumed.

"Charles? Preston?" Joe asked.

"No, not since a few weeks ago. When we saw those – those things at the same time," Charles said.

"Me neither," Preston answered.

"Oh. Okay."

"Why?"

"Just wondering." Joe shivered and did his best to shrug the feeling off. He glanced up and down the river, at the new houses with lights in their windows, at the old trees with wind in their leaves, at the long grass on the banks and the power lines leading towards town. The shadows seemed to have a new air of menace about them; as if they were hiding something…

"Boys, time to come in! We're packing up!" a voice called out. It was Cary's mother, waving at them from the top of the hill. "There's some towels inside, you can dry yourselves off!"

"Cool, thanks mom!" Cary yelled in reply.

They waited for a moment in the water, the fight temporarily forgotten. Thoughts turned to tomorrow, and teachers, and timetables, and cafeteria food, and – saddest of all – no more sleep-ins.

"I guess we're done then," Charles said.

"Yep, we're done," Preston said. "Break's over."

"Oh, _maaan_. I really don't feel like going to school tomorrow," Martin groaned.

"Ugh. School."

Joe smiled faintly. "It was fun, though."

"Yeah," Charles agreed. "It's been cool."

Together, they climbed out of the water, and began the long walk back to the house.

* * *

Cary's parents made a good team. Sandra handled the washing, and Derek handled the drying, and in no time the dishes were sparkling clean and stacked away in their cupboards.

"It's good to see him having fun again, isn't it?" Sandra said brightly.

"Definitely. Is he asleep?"

"Even Cary doesn't have infinite energy."

Derek laughed. "I doubt that. But thanks for organising this" – he gestured at the leftovers still piled on the table – " _magnificent_ party. It was good to see everyone. And the kids, too."

"My pleasure, 'dearest husband'. Thanks for looking after her."

Together, they glanced at the youngest member of the family – Cary's three-year-old sister, currently fast asleep on the couch. She was the spitting image of her brother at that age, right down to the shoulder-length blonde hair and slightly crooked teeth.

"Honestly, she slept the whole time," Derek replied. "I only had to check on her once or twice."

"Even through the fireworks?"

"Even through the fireworks."

"Huh," Sandra said, frowning. "Well, whatever happens, I think we can consider it a success if this one doesn't burn the house down."

* * *

They spent most of the drive home in comfortable silence – Joe staring out the window as the town passed by, Jack concentrating on the road. The seats of the police cruiser squeaked a little as they rounded each corner, in their familiar, reassuring way. Most of his friends found it strange, being driven places in a police car, but Joe had gotten used to it. _Mom liked it too_ , he remembered. _She said it made her feel safe. She said the other ladies were all secretly jealous of her 'hunky sheriff husband', and then dad would get embarrassed, and then she'd flick his badge and say, 'thanks for being you'._ Joe realised that was what he'd been reminded of – when Alice had randomly, absent-mindedly flicked his chest before they'd gone swimming in the river.

"Did you have fun tonight?" Jack asked suddenly.

Joe shook his head, back to the present. "Yeah. Yeah, it was nice."

"That's good. God knows, you guys deserve it." His dad leaned back, one hand on the wheel as another car passed them by. It was heading out of town, back towards Cary's place. "Say, Joe… I've got a question for you."

"What is it?"

"Well, maybe it's not a question, but – somethin' to consider. I've been thinking… and your mom was thinking about it too, before she passed…" Jack trailed off. For a moment, he focused on driving, as if expecting something to appear on the road and instantly make things easier. Nothing did. Eventually, painfully, he said: "How would you feel if we moved out of Lillian?"

Joe blinked in surprise. "What?"

"It's just that we've been in Lillian since you were born, and, I don't know… it's a nice town, with nice people, but there's only a certain amount you can do here. It's a small place. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

"Not really…"

"Basically, your mom and I were thinking about your future," Jack said. He kept looking forward, refusing to meet Joe's stare. "We wanted – _I_ want to make sure you get the best opportunities you can, and we realised that you can't do that here. Not in the same way. Sure, some people live and die here, and they're happy, but… we didn't want that for you. We wanted somethin' better. Now, I know you like it here, and you've got your friends here, and obviously we wouldn't move right away. Maybe it'd be after you finish school. Or maybe when you're in senior high. You could go to a good college, a good university. I could join another police department."

"Where would we move to?" Joe asked quietly.

"I haven't really thought about it. California, maybe, or Illinois. I've heard Massachusetts is nice."

Joe turned away, gazing out the window. Dark buildings passed by on either side, many still bearing scorchmarks or undergoing repair work from the military attack. Finally, the car turned onto the sloping street that he and Charles called home.

"I want the best for you. That's all. I hope you understand that."

"Okay."

"And I'm not asking for a decision right away, but… think about it, alright? Just give it some thought."

"Yeah. I will." _Although I really don't want to._

"Thanks, Joe."

They pulled into the driveway. Joe got out of the car, and walked up the stairs, and for some reason, as he opened the door to the empty, quiet house – the only thing he could think about was fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOT NEXT CHAPTER TEASE INCOMING: It's new female character time! Because Alice is cool, but it'd be even cooler if she had another friend to kick ass with…


	24. The First Day

* * *

_'I miss the way summer used to feel like an eternity. It stretched out before you and you couldn't even conceive of it being over. When you went back to school you'd be a little bit taller, and all your friends would too. They'd all look just a little different, and have so many stories, but that all seemed so far off, like it would never happen, because summer lasts forever.'_

**\- An excerpt from an English project, submitted by Alice Dainard on August 22nd, 1981**

* * *

**8:35AM**

* * *

Joe had walked nearly the whole way to school before he saw the army jeep on the corner. It was parked on the footpath about halfway down the hillside, allowing it a watchful view of the school's brown brick buildings and dry green fields. A constant stream of children were forced to step onto the road to avoid it, giving the vehicle a curious glance as they passed – it was hard to miss 'U.S. AIR FORCE' stencilled on the hood – but the dark tinted windows meant that its occupants stayed hidden from prying eyes.

When Joe reached it, however, the passenger-side door swung open. Lieutenant Forman stepped out and beckoned. "Joe, wait a second."

He gave half a thought to ignoring it – but, as he'd learned, pissing off the military usually had consequences. So, he stopped and waited before the Lieutenant, schoolbag slung over one shoulder. Forman whispered something to driver of the jeep, then led him over to a piece of shade beneath a nearby tree.

"How are you doing?" the Lieutenant asked, not unkindly.

That was his greatest trick, Joe knew: those eyes, that smile, the way he pretended to be your friend. _'I am your friend,'_ he'd insist, in the harsh light of that little white room at the base. _'We care about you. We want to make sure you know what really happened.'_ Their interrogation sessions were only once a week nowadays, but that still felt like far too often.

"Fine," Joe said curtly.

"That's good. First day of school?"

"Yep."

"Good good good. I'm sure you'll enjoy it. All that… learning." Forman grinned, flashing his teeth. "First, however, I wanted to ask you some questions."

_Of course_ , Joe thought. _And it's always the same ones, too._

"What happened on the main street, Joe?"

"There were lots of things flying, lots of metal stuff. The military was testing a magnetic weapon and it got out of control," he recited.

"And the ship you saw? What was that?"

"An experimental plane that was carrying the weapon."

"People say that there was some kind of… creature, terrorising the town. Can you explain what it was?"

"It might've been a rabid bear from the forest."

"Perhaps. Where were you, on that night that everything happened?"

"We were evacuated to Greenville. I went back to Lillian to find my dog."

"And what did you see there?"

"Not much. Lights, some army trucks. It's hard to remember."

"Mmm. It was almost two months ago now, wasn't it?"

Joe nodded.

"Such a long time… I'm sure the details are fuzzy," Forman mused. "Perhaps that's for the best." He stood there, thinking, staring into nothingness. Joe waited. His schoolbag was digging into his shoulders, full of stuff he intended to dump in his locker.

"Sorry, um… I have to get to class," he said eventually.

"Oh, of course! But first – a _small_ word of warning." Suddenly, the lieutenant wasn't smiling. "I want you to remember our little chats, Joe. Remember all that time we spent at the base, going over the truth. People at school will ask you questions, Joe. They'll be interested. They'll have heard rumours. They'll turn to _you_ for answers. I want you to tell them the truth; the truth, as we have discussed. If you do not…" Forman paused, and gave a sad sigh. "If you do not, there will be severe consequences. Very severe. In fact, I doubt that you or your friends would ever see the light of day again. It is hard to make children disappear, but not impossible. Do you catch my drift?"

Joe swallowed. _Unfortunately, I think I do._

Then, abruptly, the lieutenant was all smiles again. "That is, of course, if anyone believes you! Have a good day at school, Joe. I'm sure we'll meet again soon."

Forman walked casually back to the jeep and slid into the passenger seat, closing the door behind him. Joe waited for the engine to start but the jeep just sat there silently – perhaps it was waiting for another person of interest to come by. _I know Charles walks to school this way…_

Joe shook his head, and forced himself to start moving again. It was no use dwelling on it; the more normal they all behaved, the less suspicious the army would be. And, if the army was less suspicious, it meant they had more freedom to go digging. The promise they'd made on the water tower several weeks ago was a frequent echo in his mind: _'We promise to make sure the truth gets out… to find out what's happening to us… to learn if there's anything else living in this universe…_

_…we also promise to stay alive.'_

That was the most important promise, in the end – _as long as we're alive, the other stuff can wait._ _For the moment._ Then he passed through the school's front gate, and suddenly there were other things to think about.

A crush of students milled about the parking lot, converging towards the entrance of the main building. Joe joined them, dodging cars and buses. Horns honked amid the buzz of excited conversation. High above them, an American flag swung lazily in the breeze. It was oddly similar to the last day of eighth grade a couple months ago, except that now everyone was walking back in instead of out (and no one seemed _quite_ as happy about it). 'Welcome back!' the noticeboard announced brightly. He realised that he was even wearing the same clothes – blue jeans, green shirt – although, unless it was his imagination, they did seem to fit a bit tighter…

"Joe, wait up!" Charles appeared out of the crowd in his traditional yellow jacket, furiously stuffing something into his bag. They fell into step, Charles' longer stride matching Joe's shorter one. "Did you get stopped too?" Charles asked.

"Yeah, on the hill. They _really_ don't want us to say anything."

"Obviously. You can't blame them, after what we saw them do."

"…Are you going to say anything?" Joe asked.

"What, are you insane? Of course not, I haven't got a death wish." Charles pushed through the main doors, his bigger frame parting the crowd. Joe followed close behind him. Inside it was even busier, hundreds of students moving this way and that in a chaotic spiral of humanity. There were only two high schools in Lillian – this one, plus the religious school across town – which meant that both were pretty packed. Joe glanced at the clock above the reception desk. _8:45_. _Still got ten minutes._ Together they began walking down the hall to their lockers, shoes squeaking on the dimpled rubber floor.

"So I've been thinking about our movie," Charles began.

"The old one or a new one?"

"New one."

"That was quick," Joe replied. He stepped over someone's dropped lunchbox.

"Yeah. But it's hard not to get excited, you know?"

"Sure, I understand. Did you you have any cool ideas?"

"A ton," Charles said. "But there was one I kept coming back to, over and over – I didn't get to sleep until 3AM, I was thinking so much about it—"

He accidentally bumped into pack of tenth graders, nearly knocking them over. One of the girls tripped on her bag and shot him a venomous glare.

"Hey, watch it!"

"Oops. Sorry." Charles let out a huge yawn.

"You're gonna have a fun day," Joe murmured.

"Whatever, it was worth it," he retorted. "Anyway, this idea… it was about time travel."

"Time travel? Like in Star Trek?"

"Not really. It's different. Like, I was thinking, what if you had a time machine—"

"Okay."

"—but instead of jumping thirty years through time or something, you only jumped one day back—"

"Uh-huh."

"—because you're trying to change something bad that happens. Except that you can't figure out _how_ to change it, so you keep jumping back in time over and over again, reliving this day, trying to stop this one thing from happening. And every time you jump, you do something different, and the day changes a little bit, until finally… well, I don't know. I haven't figured that out yet."

"Riiiggght." Joe frowned. "Wouldn't that be boring? Seeing the same day over and over again?"

"Not if you did a good job. Because it'd be interesting to see how things change, right?"

"Sure, okay. But what's the bad thing at the start that this guy's trying to prevent?"

"I haven't figured that out yet either. It could be mint, though - a better story."

"With better production value," Joe added.

"Yeah, with better production value. Where's your new locker?"

"Number #179. It's near biology, I think."

"Cool, mine's near the music rooms. See you later." Charles yawned again, then exited through the nearest doorway. Joe waved and kept on walking.

Biology was at the eastern end of the school, in a block with the other science classrooms. It was connected to the main building by a covered walkway and Joe's locker was half-way down, close to Dr. Woodward's old room; it seemed a little old and rusty, but the locker itself was fairly clean (some kids had found dead birds in theirs last year, so it was worth looking on the bright side). He started unloading the contents of his bag: notebooks, textbooks, blank files, plastic sleeves, a whole bunch of other stationary he'd probably never use. He tried to remember how his timetable went before realising he'd written it down earlier, and he took out the sheet and stuck it to the inside of the door. First up was biology, which was nice and convenient – then math, then gym…

"Hey. You're Joe Lamb, right?"

A line from a spy movie sprang into his head: _'I might be, I might not be. Who wants to know?_ ' To avoid sounding like too much of a dork, instead he settled on, "Yeah?"

The guy asking was tall, well-built, with swept-back blonde hair and a strong gaze. He was wearing a sports jersey and Joe vaguely recognised him – his name was Tim, or Todd or something, and he was on the basketball team. _One of the cool kids._ Puberty had been kind to him, or maybe he worked out a lot. He leaned on the locker next to Joe's, awkwardly close, one arm dangling loosely by his side.

"Huh," he grunted, staring at Joe's face.

"Um… do I know you?" Joe asked, confused.

"No, I don't think so."

"Um…"

"Interesting." His voice was smooth, but kind of whiny at the same time. "I want you to know something, Joe."

"What?

"I really fuckin' hate you."

And with that, he walked off down the hallway, leaving Joe wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

**9:50AM**

* * *

Mr. Lacovara was dressed in a slightly-too-large brown suit complemented by a spotty red tie, and its pale, faded colour rather matched his personality. He clasped his hands in front of him and creased his forehead, as if he were a priest imparting a nugget of great wisdom.

"Natural selection is a process in which weak and inferior genes are weeded out of the gene pool. Many of you may know this concept by its more popular _nom de plume_ , 'survival of the fittest.' This refers to the supposed greater probability that 'fit' as opposed to 'unfit' individuals will survive certain tests…"

As the biology teacher droned on, Joe let his mind wander. Usually you didn't expect to learn much on the first day of school, but it appeared this was an exception – a list of organisms and their evolutionary traits was already scrawled on the blackboard. The rest of the classroom was pretty typical, with desks arranged in pairs and walls covered in posters and cell diagrams. Chunky microscopes sat at the end of each row. A few terrariums were set up on shelves at the back. Joe sat next to Cary and they shared a textbook between them, open to a page half-way through; at the desk in front, Charles was already struggling to stay awake. _Man, if it's this bad on the_ first _day, imagine what it'll be like in two months time._

"Variation exists within all populations of organisms. This occurs partly because random mutations arise in the genome of an individual organism, and these mutations can be passed to offspring. Individuals with certain traits may survive and reproduce more than individuals with other, less successful, variants. Therefore, the population evolves."

_Tap tap tap!_ A knock on the door.

"Why, that might be Mister Darwin now!" their teacher suggested brightly. He strode across and pushed the door open, revealing—

A girl, who cautiously poked her head into the classroom. She was short-ish, with Asian features and black hair tied loosely in a ponytail. She wore jeans and a light grey shirt and glanced around with a neutral expression. (The boys immediately sat up straighter, staring at the new arrival with interest. The girls mostly looked suspicious. It was high school, after all.)

The girl handed a note to Mr. Lacovara. "Hi, I'm Rachel Yukimura. I'm a transfer student," she explained quietly.

"Oh! Well, uh – grab a free seat! Always room for another head on the chopping block." The teacher smiled kindly as Rachel entered and she made her way down the central aisle, holding her file to her chest.

_A new girl? That's cool_ , Joe thought.

Charles obviously thought so too, and gave her (what he imagined was) a sophisticated nod as she walked past. Cary did his best not to stare. There were a couple of empty chairs at the back and Rachel sat down in one of them, next to one of the loner boys who couldn't believe his luck. She kept her eyes down and pulled out her textbook.

"Where we were? Oh, yes – therefore the population evolves, and gains a useful trait. To illustrate this point, we will be using the second half of this class to perform a short dissection—"

" _Ewwww!"_ Groans echoed around the classroom, plus one excited "Yes!"

"—a _dissection_ of a cow's eye, which you will be undertaking in pairs. I want you to note down the parts of the eye and think about how they may have been shaped by evolution. Your answers will not be assessed; this is purely for your own learning. Now, because you are in high school and should be making new friends, _I_ will be assigning groups."

More groans, but Mr. Lacovara was a pro and pushed right through. He started pointing at random. "You two! You're working together. And you, and you. And Joe, you're not too weird. You can work with – I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Rachel," she replied.

"Sorry, of course. Joe, you can work with Rachel."

* * *

The cow's eye stared at them gloomily from its small silver dish, almost like it was accusing them of something. It was wet, slimy, pale pink, surrounded by a few scraps of flesh and muscle. Joe picked up the scalpel distastefully. He wasn't usually that squeamish, but something about the eye's rubbery texture was very off-putting.

"Do you want me to do it?" Rachel asked quietly.

"Um… only if you want to," Joe said.

"It's not a problem. I like this stuff." She shrugged, and Joe handed her the scalpel. With confident efficiency, she held the eye in place with one gloved hand and made a slice across the front. Some sort of clear liquid immediately began seeping out.

"Where are you from, originally?" Joe asked.

"I was born in Japan. But we moved here when I was very young."

"Cool." _That checks out,_ he thought. She looked Japanese, but the accent was definitely American. Rachel turned the eye over, making small, precise movements. "I guess I'd better write this down," Joe said.

"Sure."

He pulled out his notebook and started trying to explain what was happening. _Underneath the first floppy pink bit is another floppy pink bit, and then another slightly harder clear bit, and then this weird black stuff on the inside…_

Rachel kept quiet. She seemed quiet, overall. Confident in what she was doing, but also shy at the same time, like she was trying to do her job without causing offence. _Focused_. That was the word. Her lips were pursed in concentration. And up close, Joe couldn't help noticing that she was actually kind of pretty – shorter, and a little stockier than Alice, but her sharp black eyebrows hovered over thoughtful eyes, and even if she didn't smile too often, her face lit up when she did. _Like someone who might be a good friend, once you get to know them._

"That's probably the lens," Joe pointed out. "That see-through thing."

"I think you're right. Do you want to keep it separate?"

"Yeah, we should." Joe picked up the small, clear oval and dropped it in another dish. "So if you were born in Japan…"

"Mmm."

"…do you have, like, a Japanese name too?"

"Yes. It's Ryoko," she said.

"Ryoko. That's cool."

"Thanks, but call me Rachel." She put down the scalpel and wiped her gloves on a paper towel. "It's usually easier. You're Joe, aren't you?"

"Yep." He grinned. "Much more boring."

"I don't know. Boring can be nice."

"Definitely, you can say that again. It's been a weird few months around here."

Rachel paused, looking at him curiously. "Weird? In what way?"

"Um, honestly? It's hard to explain. It… it doesn't really matter, if you just moved here."

"Mmm." She picked up the scalpel again and started cutting. The eye was slowly separated into amorphous blobs of flesh amid the harsh smell of disinfectant. It felt like an ignominious end for – as Mr. Lacovara kept pointing out – the final product of millions of years of evolution. Joe couldn't help but remember another creature; one much larger than a cow, but with the same black, wet eyes, and he wondered if scientists had ever dissected pieces of _it_ with the same clinical detachment.

* * *

**12:20PM**

* * *

Preston looked down at his lunch tray critically. It contained a bun, flavoured milk, sickly-looking peas, mashed potato (cold) and some brown, meaty slop called 'stew' that the lunch lady had just spooned onto his plate. A cow's eye might have been a better option. Nevertheless, he forced a smile, said 'thanks' and started making his way towards their usual spot.

The cafeteria was a square, grey room filled with circular tables and cheap plastic chairs. The kitchen and drink dispensers were arranged down one side and queues of students patiently made their way along the line. Long rows of fluorescent lights criss-crossed the ceiling, complementing the windows in the far wall. The room hummed with constant conversation; maybe half the students brought lunch from home, while the remainder were forced to rely on whatever the cafeteria was experimenting with. Preston made a quick detour to grab some cutlery when someone suddenly bumped his shoulder. He staggered sideways, nearly dropping the tray.

"Hey, pussy! How was math camp this year?"

"I told you, Ben, I didn't go," Preston muttered.

Ben Huxley wasn't the kind of bully to be deterred by a simple 'no'. "Were you too dumb?"

"Nope."

"Did they kick you out for being a pussy?"

"Nope."

"Hey, I heard that the girls there are all super gross. I heard that they all have glasses, and they're all fat, and they're so desperate that—"

Preston sighed and just walked away. _Buzz off, Ben. No one likes you_.

… _They might be desperate, but not as desperate as you_. _THAT'S what I should've said! Why can't I ever think of this stuff till after?_ Preston lifted his tray up as he squeezed between a couple of chairs, then exchanged a nod with Mr. Lacovara as they passed each other.

"Mr. Miller."

"Mills," Preston corrected, but the teacher was already out of earshot. He paused; it looked like their normal lunch table had been stolen by a bunch of older kids, all wearing the school jumper with the big green 'L' on the back. He stood up on his tiptoes, peering around for the others, and eventually spotted them in the far corner by the windows (Alice was there too, he noticed, forgoing her usual seat with the cheerleader girls). Apparently, they were too busy arguing to notice as he walked up behind them.

"—there's another connection!" Martin was saying. "It's not only Project Argus, I read about it in the files. There's something else!"

"How can there be something else?" Charles replied. "You're saying there's another one?"

"Yes! Maybe. It _could_ be a different part of the same experiment or it could be another alien altogether!"

Preston nearly dropped his tray for a second time. "You're talking about that _here_?" he hissed.

"Why not?" Alice asked. "It's not like anyone's paying attention."

"Oh, really? Rumours are already spreading about us!" Preston grabbed a chair and dumped his lunch, slipping between Cary and Joe. "This morning I was stopped by some seventh graders who thought it was _our_ fault that train blew up. Our fault!"

Joe frowned. "You mean the one Dr. Woodward crashed into?"

"Yes! That one! They even knew Dr. Woodward was involved!"

"How?"

"No idea, but – Lillian's a small town! People talk! They know we got in trouble with the military, at least, and I guess they made the connection to the train…" He sighed. "I'm just saying, guys, _maybe_ try and keep things quiet. At least don't bring classified files to school." He gestured at the manila folder marked 'TOP SECRET' that was scattered across the table.

Obediently, Martin began gathering up papers. "Sorry."

"It doesn't matter. What were you guys talking about, anyway?"

"Breaking into a military base," Cary replied.

"Haha, very funny."

Cary didn't smile.

"Oh. You're serious." Somehow, Preston wasn't even surprised. _And that's how insane my life is now._

* * *

Joe let the others do the explaining. Or Martin, mainly – he was the one who'd been doing the most reading, going through the hundreds of papers they'd recovered from Woodward's dungeon, trying to find clues as to what the alien had been and where it had actually come from. _Trying to find out anything that we don't already know._ It was certainly a far cry from the Martin of two months ago, who'd kept insisting they forget about the train crash altogether.

"It says so here," Martin said, skimming through a printout. "'Argus may be additionally related to the Manila Event of 1948 (see: Project Chiron), or similarly to the Tunguska Events of 1908 and 1963 (see: Project Nestor). However, these events and any related materials are under the control of foreign powers. Research into any connecting events is underway by CIA personnel at the Springfield and Port Clinton facilities, with conclusions available upon request to any Argus members of appropriate clearance…'"

"And that means… what, exactly?" Alice asked.

"It means that the Argus project – this whole thing we've been mixed up in, the alien, the air force, everything – is only _one_ part of it. There's other projects, and maybe there are _other aliens_. Projects Chiron and Nestor. It says it right here."

"Wait a second, wait a second," Preston interrupted. "You said 'Springfield'. That's where we go for our interrogations, isn't it?"

"Yeah! Exactly."

"So essentially, what you're saying, is… you want us to break into a heavily-guarded military research facility to find out more about a random, classified project which might or might not be related to aliens, and you're basing all this on a piece of paper that we stole from a dead person's trailer?"

"Yeah," Martin said. "I know it sounds weird."

"It's not weird. It's _insane_."

"We could do it next time we go for questioning, right?" Charles suggested. "Have a look around, I mean."

"That might be difficult, considering how close they watch us," Joe said.

Preston shook his head. "Guys, no. Why are we still _talking_ about this—"

"Talking about what?"

Joe whirled around. Rachel was standing behind them, sheepishly holding a lunch tray. "Sorry to interrupt, but… can I sit here? I don't really know anyone else."

"Oh! Sure, join us," Joe said. "Everyone, this is Rachel. She's a transfer student. Rachel, this is everyone. That's Charles, that's Cary – you probably saw them in biology – that's Martin, that's Preston, and that's Alice."

She stared at them all intensely, remembering names as Joe went around the circle. They shuffled sideways to make room for another chair. Martin quickly put the papers under his seat while the others took grabbed a few mouthfuls of food.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," Rachel murmured, "but I heard you talking about the army?"

Preston gave them all an _I-told-you-so_ look.

"Oh, that's nothing," Charles said, brushing it off. "We've been seeing a lot of military trucks around town recently, and we weren't sure what they're doing here."

"Really? My dad's in the army, maybe I can ask him."

"Haha. Hahaha. Your dad's in the army?"

"Yes. Technically, he's a liaison between the army and the CIA."

"Wow, hahaha. That's mint." Charles laughed nervously again, then swallowed.

There was a strange, confused silence while Rachel tried to figure out why everyone looked so antsy all of a sudden. Martin took a big bite out of his sandwich. Alice's fake smile was a marvel to behold.

"So – where did you come from?" Cary asked eventually.

"Florida. My dad was transferred here to work at one of the bases."

"Really? My dad supplies chemicals to the bases round here, so we're practically related. Do you feel cold all the time? With the weather, I mean."

She shrugged. "I guess so. Are people nice here?"

"Sometimes," Preston said.

"You gotta be careful who you hang out with," Charles added. "There are a lot of _characters_ at this school. I saw you in our biology class – how'd you like it?"

"It was okay. Teacher seemed kind of strange, though."

There was another short pause as they contemplated Mr. Lacovara's strangeness. Joe kept wondering how much Rachel had overheard of their conversation earlier; it would've sounded completely deranged to anyone who was listening.

"That teacher _is_ weird," Cary said darkly. "Once, he ran over an old lady and then he blamed it on his car. He said the accelerator got stuck."

"Cary! Not a great lunch topic!" Charles hissed.

"No, it's fine." Rachel leaned forwards, speaking softer. "We had this teacher at our school, and this guy broke into his house and the teacher shot him."

Alice winced. "With a _gun_?"

"Yeah. But he didn't go to jail, cause – I guess if someone breaks into your house, you're allowed to shoot them."

Martin chuckled nervously. "Our workshop teacher got his hair caught in the lathe, and then he got his whole scalp torn off. And now he has to wear a wig."

They all giggled.

"Our shop teacher got his pinky cut off by the radial arm saw," Rachel said, "and when they tried to sew it back on it didn't fit anymore, so now he has a rubber one instead and it falls off twice a day."

They giggled again, as people often do when talking about horrendous injuries. 'Check out this weird thing that happened at my school' was something that everyone could bond over. Rachel appeared to relax a little, grabbed her drink and took a sip.

"Thanks for letting me sit here," she said to Joe. "You guys seem nice."

Charles grinned. "You're _really_ nice."

"Would you mind showing me the ropes around here?"

"Sure, we could… show you the ropes…"

"But if I start annoying you, please, be sure to let me know."

"Oh, don't worry. We'd never let you annoy us." Charles and Cary nodded enthusiastically, although Preston and Martin seemed a bit less sure. And Alice… Joe couldn't tell what Alice was thinking, but she appeared happy enough. It wasn't long before Cary and Charles were bickering again, arguing about who had the best chips.

_I just hope that nothing goes_ wrong, Joe thought. _Being around us is more dangerous than you'd think. But finding a new friend is better than making a new enemy, so I guess that's something to be grateful for._

As for Rachel, she merely sat back and watched, a hint of a smile on her lips.

* * *

**2:05PM**

* * *

Twenty fourteen-year-olds lined up on one side of the gymnasium, split into two camps. On the left: jocks (or people who were happy to be there). On the right: nerds (or people who just _weren't that good_ at football). The last two periods on Monday were gym class, and this was the natural order of things. Everyone wore the same thin grey t-shirt and tiny green running shorts. Above their heads, the strangely depressing slogan ' _Failing to Prepare = Preparing to Fail'_ was painted in huge yellow letters.

Their gym teacher stood before them with hands on hips, a whistle hanging round his neck. Mr. Davies was a casually confident, square-jawed hunk of a man, and he clapped sharply to get their attention. "Alright fellas," he announced. "I just wanna let you know that in honour of it being the first day back, I'm gonna give you guys the day off."

Martin raised his hand. "Can we go home?"

"Haverford, don't be an idiot, alright?" He grinned. "I mean, we're gonna do something fun! I'm gonna let you guys… play _dodgeball_."

"YEEEEAAHHH!" The left side of the room started clapping, cheering. The right side (including Joe, Cary and Martin) merely sighed or stared at the floor. Then Joe glanced to the side, and noticed someone looking at him.

It was Todd, from earlier. The good-looking guy who'd stopped by his locker that morning. _What was that quote again?_

_Oh yeah: 'I really fucking hate you.'_

Joe swallowed, and took a deep breath as Todd smiled a slow, predatory smile.

* * *

Balls. Balls, everywhere. They soared back and forth across the gym, bouncing off the walls and skidding off the floor, each time making a distinctive ' _thunk!'_ Kids ran for cover, shielding their faces desperately like a scene out of World War 2.

"Oh my _god_!"

"Alright, c'mon guys, let's go!" Mr. Davies yelled.

"AAH! Ow!" Someone shouted in pain as scarlet rubber slammed into their chest. Joe and Cary stayed pinned against the back wall. On the other side, the jock team stood at the front of their half, launching balls with extreme prejudice and catching any shots that came near. Todd collected two and threw them both in quick succession; one hit the wood right above Martin's head and he ducked, grimacing. "Would somebody _please_ tell what's supposed to be fun about this?!"

Cary flinched at every ball like he was shellshocked. "If we just let ourselves get hit, then we can get out – aaugh!" He jumped sideways to dodge. _Thunk!_

"Woah!" A second ball barely missed Joe's face.

"Let's just pretend to get hit, nobody would know," Martin said desperately.

"Maybe, but I don't think we can—"

"LADIES!" The teacher pointed at them. "Put down the mascara, get in there and play! C'mon!"

Joe remained with his back to the wall. He could play tennis, and baseball, and even wasn't bad at basketball, but dodgeball was something that was only fun for a certain type of person. That person wasn't him. It _definitely_ wasn't Cary, who was the smallest kid in class, and Martin's glasses also made it difficult to do much. A pair of kids sprinted past him, chasing some loose ammunition. Todd whipped another ball at their team and it slammed into a guy's hip, knocking him onto his butt. "Aaah!"

" _Very_ nice!" Mr Davies exclaimed.

For Martin, that was the last straw. "I can't take it anymore man, I gotta get out of here!" He turned and started sprinting for the sidelines.

The enormous figure of Ben Huxley did not approve. "Hey, look! Little man's makin' a run for it!"

"Hey, only my mom's allowed to call me that!" Martin yelled back. He crouched down and squeezed past some more of his teammates, eyes on the clear space in the corner. Ben raised his arm and grunted and threw—

—and a second later the ball _thunked_ off the side of Martin's skull, who collapsed and fell onto his hands and knees, dazed. He groaned, rubbing his head. "Ow."

"Woah…" Cary and Joe looked on, eyes wide.

"Okay, now it's time to slam Lamb!" Todd suddenly pointed right at him, ball held threateningly. Joe sucked down some air and immediately began looking for an exit. He grabbed Cary's shirt.

"Joe! Get away from me!" Cary hissed.

"We need to stick together!"

"Are you crazy? That Todd guy's got his eyes on you, man!"

Someone whooped across the gym, either in pain or elation. It was hard to tell. The balls kept flying. Joe ducked as Cary pulled away from him. "Help me, Cary!"

"How am I supposed to do that? Why is Todd so interested in you anyway?"

"I don't know!"

"How can you not _know_?"

"HEY KID!" Ben Huxley shouted. Instantly, a red ball cannoned into Cary's groin.

Cary froze. Slowly, he bent over, his face a mask of pain. His teammates gasped in sympathy with hands over their mouths.

" _Oooh_."

"Oh my god."

Cary took a breath and straightened, right as _– whump! –_ a second ball crushed the same spot. He fell to the floor, clutching his stomach. "Uggghhh…"

"YEAH!" Ben shouted again. "YEAH!—"

The whistle shrieked, loud and piercing. "Hey! Huxley, hey! Hey! That's illegal, you're out of it." Mr. Davies pointed at the benches.

"What?" Ben spread his hands.

"Just sit down. Alright, Lee, come on, walk it off."

Cary got to his feet and stumbled awkwardly to the safe zone, still bent double. As Ben walked past, the teacher chuckled and slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. "Siddown, knucklehead."

_Thunk!_ Joe ducked behind a long-haired kid, staying out of sight. There were only four others left on his team and they were standing in a group near the middle of the rear wall.

"There's nowhere to hide, Lamb!" Todd yelled.

"Kid, get away from us! That psycho's after you!"

Todd chucked a ball at them, low and hard, and the long-haired kid leaned away. "Pick 'em up and throw!" Mr. Davies yelled. Long-hair grabbed another ball, tossed it weakly at the other side. " _That's_ the way."

But the throw was high, and Todd caught it easily. "Nice throw, pussy!"

Long-hair seemed pretty happy though. "He caught my ball – I'm out! Haha, yeah!" He laughed and skipped to the side.

_Thunk, thunk! Thunk!_ _Thunk!_ Another four balls speared towards them in quick succession… with four direct hits. In the space of five seconds Joe's remaining teammates were eliminated, and they dropped to the ground before him with a chorus of moans and bruises. He pressed himself up against the wall, eyes darting back and forth. _Only me left. That's not good odds._

"Go Joe, go!" Martin urged.

He took the advice and ran for it. Joe sprinted sideways as half-a-dozen balls arced towards him, most of them landing a few feet behind his back. He skidded to a stop as – _BAM! –_ a shot hit the wood near his head, then ran back the other way. The whole time, Todd just watched him suffer – standing, waiting, a menacing smirk on his face. Joe paused. Someone else threw a ball at him and he managed to duck it, then only had to stand still as another missed him completely.

And then, entire breathless seconds later… all of the balls were on his side. All except one. Todd aimed his last shot and flung it as hard as he could. Joe flinched. The ball sped right at him, spinning viciously, and—

—stopped. _Whump!_

He looked down. Somehow, the ball had wedged itself between his arms and chest. He took it, surprised, and held it in his hands. _I caught it!_

For a moment, stunned silence. Then: " _Woooooh! Yeah!_ " Joe's team started cheering, clapping wildly from the sidelines. Across the gym, Ben Huxley just laughed. "Ha!"

Todd swore and shot Joe a venomous glare. "Oh my _god_!"

"Alright Applebee, take a seat." Mr. Davies gestured at the benches. "C'mon, Lamb, throw it back!"

Joe skipped a few steps forwards and chucked the ball in the general direction of the other team. There were still nearly ten of them left. _Catch it, catch it, come on—_

One of the guys raised his hands and backed out of the way, letting the ball bounce in front of him. The rest of the team now had ammo again and slowly converged to his position, balls at the ready. _Uh-oh. I wonder if this is how prisoners feel before they face the firing squad._ Joe crouched down, preparing himself for the onslaught.

When it came, it came hard and fast. A torrent of rubber whipped through the air until – _thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk! –_ one shot clipped Joe on the shoulder and he curled up, protecting his head, then a second one hit his side and he gasped and just waited for the ordeal to end. "Aaah!"

Martin sighed, looking skyward. "Dodgeball's kind of a stupid game, isn't it."

Cary could only nod in agreement. _Could be worse, though. A_ _t least we're not playing football._

* * *

**2:40PM**

* * *

On the other side of Lillian High School, Charles was having a much nicer time. His English Literature class was studying _Heart of Darkness_ this semester, and they were spending their first period reading the first couple of chapters. The entire room was quiet as mouse; the warm, still air only disturbed by the occasional turn of a page.

The new girl was in this class, too. Rachel sat behind him, to the right, nose deep in the book. She saw him looking, met his gaze for the briefest of moments, then resumed reading.

_She doesn't give much away, does she,_ Charles thought to himself. _Seems nice, though. It'll be cool to show her around – I bet Florida's pretty different to Lillian. I bet_ Japan's _pretty different to Lillian._

_But she can't be friends with us, can she… not really. Everything that happened changed us, changed who we are, and she never experienced any of it. We can't tell her any of it. We can't SAY anything. There'll always be this wall between us that's never going to be broken down. We're different, now. You can't just tiptoe around the subject forever._

_And we especially can't talk to her if her dad's some kind of military hotshot. How's_ that _for a freaky coincidence._

Charles flipped a page. He hadn't read any of the previous one, but otherwise the teacher would notice he was daydreaming. _It sure would be nice to have another friend, though. A girl— not a girlfriend, but a girl who's a friend. And I was already planning to ask Amy about being an actor_ …

_We do need another girl. We do. And my stupid sisters would never volunteer, not in a million years._

His mind made up, Charles leaned over toward Rachel's chair. "Hey," he whispered.

Rachel glanced up again, a quizzical look in her eyes.

"I was just wondering… how do you feel about movies?"

* * *

**3:15PM**

* * *

Alice grabbed her books from her locker and stuffed them into her bag. Around her, dozens of others did the same, eager to get home. The gloomy second-floor hallway of the maths building was packed with students and schoolbags, teachers doing their best to push through the mob.

"No running, please! Keep it down!"

She flipped through her math book, trying to remember which pages she was supposed to read. The first day hadn't been too bad, really, although having homework _already_ was definitely a bummer. The teachers had been decent however, and most of her classmates were fine (even if her friends from last year kept asking why she'd been hanging out with boys the entire break). She grinned a little – _they're probably just jealous_ – and zipped up her bag, closing her locker with a soft _click_. A few eighth-graders barged past, sprinting down the hall towards the stairs.

_"Hey, give that back!"_

_"Come and get it, moron!"_

Alice turned, about to start the journey home when an arm suddenly barred her path. "Hey."

She looked up – she had to, because he was taller than her. "Todd…" She grabbed his arm and tried to push it away, but it didn't budge. "Todd, I have to get home."

He smiled, showing off his perfect teeth. But when he spoke, he didn't sound particularly happy. "Why the rush?"

"I have homework," she said tersely.

"Oh, come on. You've got hours and hours to do it. Why can't we talk?"

"We can talk later."

"But how are we supposed to talk when you never answer my calls?" Todd was still smiling, but his muscles were tensed. Alice noticed and tried to walk around him. He blocked her. "You never answer my calls, Alice."

"I never _get_ your calls," she lied.

"You do get them. Your dad answers them, sometimes, but he always says you're out."

"I am out."

"Is that right… spending a lot of time with your new boyfriends?"

The people around them were beginning to notice the confrontation (Todd was a noticeable guy, after all). Some of the younger kids moved away, not wanting any part of it; most of the older ones were eager for some entertainment. Girls started to gossip in hushed voices. Boys looked on with dark curiosity, the same way you'd watch as a fire started to burn.

"They're my _friends_ , Todd. Not everything has to be a relationship," Alice retorted.

He shook his head. "I know what they are. Why the hell are you spending so much time with them? Charles, Joe, that whole group, they're losers—"

"They're not losers!"

"—and the whole break, three months, I didn't see you once! Not once! I thought we were supposed to be together!" His voice echoed from the dull green walls, before fading into deathly silence.

"We weren't really together," Alice said quietly. "We dated for a semester, and… that's it. Now it's over."

"That's _it_?"

"Yeah. That's it."

"Not even 'sorry'?"

"Fine, I'm sorry. I don't want to see you anymore. Is that what you wanna hear?"

Todd leaned closer, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "How can you even _say_ that – am I not good enough for you, or something? Wasn't I good enough for Alice Dainard? Do you think I'm just disposable?"

"Todd, stop—"

"And what I really don't understand is what you see in Joe-fucking-Lamb! He's just a kid who's mom died! That's it! He's _nothing!_ "

Despite herself, Alice could feel a lump forming in her stomach, in her chest and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Todd, you're embarrassing yourself. You're embarrassing _me_. Please don't."

"Has he even kissed you yet?"

"…What?"

"Has he even kissed you?"

"No! I told you, we're—"

I bet he has," Todd said viciously. "I bet he's done all sorts of things to you, because you're such a god-damn _slut_."

He only whispered that last, awful word, but everyone heard it just the same. A couple of the girls gasped. The boys standing in the hallway jeered loudly. " _Ooooooh!_ " Alice tore her eyes away from his and looked around at the spectators, suddenly aware of their gaze and their judgement. The scene wouldn't be easily forgotten.

She swallowed, and said harshly: "Todd, you're fifteen. Get over it."

And suddenly, somehow, he seemed ashamed – ashamed, and pathetic, and small, with his stupid teeth and stupid nose and stupid blonde hair. He grabbed her arm again but she shook him off. "I liked you, Alice!" he said desperately. "I still like you. Maybe I even _loved_ —"

Before he could finish the sentence, she ran. She hated herself for it, but she ran. That was it. Images of the time Todd had sent her flowers flashed through her mind, the time they'd gone to the diner together and walked home in the rain, the times they'd sat together at school and drawn secrets on each other's hands, and it all blurred together with the doors and the hallways and the staring faces as she rushed down the stairs. Were they good memories? Bad? So much had happened in the months between that she'd forgotten. Either way, it didn't matter anymore.

_Am I crying?_ No, she wasn't crying. She just felt… dizzy, humiliated, maybe even guilty, and for once she didn't know what to do. Todd was probably chasing her but she didn't care. The only thing that mattered was getting away. She wiped her eyes and slipped through the crowd, searching for—

_Joe_. A sudden need to see his face welled up inside of her, so fast it threatened to burst. She looked around but couldn't spot him, lost in a sea of people with blurry, misty faces. Joe was – Joe was nice, and he'd understand (or at least he'd try), and for all of Todd's good qualities he definitely wasn't that. She waded onwards. Suddenly she saw a distinctive mop of brown hair in the distance.

"Joe! Wait!"

Maybe it wasn't him, or maybe he didn't hear her. The corridor seemed endless. _So many people_. Again, that image of Todd with roses in his hand bubbled to the surface, but she gritted her teeth and pushed it down. Replaced it with the image of him standing in the hallway, gripping her arm like a vice. Alice reached the main doors and stumbled through them, bursting out into the sunlight—

Except there was no sunlight, because it was raining.

Big, fat droplets streaked into the yard from pregnant stormclouds above. The storm had rushed in quick over the hills, heavy and thick, squatting over the town like a dark grey omen. Kids took cover or rushed across the parking lot, squealing and covering their heads. Alice looked up at the clouds, squinting; a couple of droplets splattered on her forehead and stuck her hair damp against her skin. There wasn't any wind, no thunder or lightning – just warm, grey rain.

"Joe!" she shouted again. She couldn't see him in the yard, not through the haze. _Maybe he's already walking home with Charles. Maybe he hasn't left yet._ She jogged down the steps, shielding her eyes, half-expecting to feel a hand on her shoulder, to hear Todd coming up behind her. "Joe!"

"…Alice?" _That voice._ And a small figure, waving at her from near the buses.

She ran towards him unthinking, her heart filled with dumb relief. He seemed confused but waited patiently for her, half-smiling as she ran through the rain.

"Um – I don't know if you noticed, but it's kind of wet out here. Alice?"

She didn't reply. When she reached him, she simply grabbed his hand and started dragging him towards the grass. "Come on."

"What are you doing?"

_Please, Joe. I need you._ The drops kept falling. Alice pulled him onwards, acting on instinct, drawing strength from his grip. They passed other students, thoughts of maths homework long gone. Joe was still confused but followed willingly enough. His hand was smooth and warm in her own, skin slippery from the storm. Her heart thumped in her chest.

Finally, they reached the chain-link barrier that ran around the edge of the school. Alice took Joe's shoulders, stumbled forwards clumsily, pressed him up against the fence – the boy she'd come to know, to confide in, to fall in love with, the boy with beautiful, messy brown hair and a face damp from the rain.

And she kissed him.

Joe's eyes widened in surprise. For one second, two seconds, three, he was frozen; their lips touching, Alice's body hot against his.

Then his hand moved, and found her cheek… and he kissed her back, long and hard. (Technically, he didn't know how to, but it seemed to work well enough.) The fence dug into his shoulders, and the rain still fell, but Alice held him there, gently, heart racing, until all other sensations faded into nothingness. She closed her eyes. She didn't know it was impulse, or adrenaline, or simple, pure truth – all she knew was that it felt right. Their lips touched.

Slowly, eventually, she pulled away slightly, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes looked into his; kind and brown and full of warmth.

"People are watching us," Joe murmured softly.

"I don't care," she whispered back.

She leaned forwards and kissed him again, losing herself in their embrace. She felt his fingers run through her hair, and she shivered, and her hand slipped around his neck, beneath his ear and when she noticed he had goosebumps she couldn't help but smile. Her tongue pressed against his lips like his body pressed against her chest. They moved as one, the clumsiness gradually fading, and together they stayed for an endless, breathless moment – a mixture of pleasure, and surprise, and _life_.

Finally, Alice stepped back. She let go of him, a little uncertainly, brushing her hair behind her shoulders. Joe remained leaning on the fence as if he wasn't sure how to react, a ridiculous smile on his face.

"That was sudden," he said shyly.

"I'm sorry. I – I think I needed it."

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna complain." He grinned.

Together, they sat down on the grass, their backs to the fence as the rain kept falling. Their schoolbags lay beside them, damp and forgotten. A group of younger kids gave them a curious glance as they walked by.

"Was that your first kiss?" Alice asked.

"Um… yep. First one," Joe replied, blushing. "How 'bout you?"

"No. But it might be the first one I've actually enjoyed."

"That good, huh?"

"Yep. That good."

_It was pretty good,_ Joe thought. The clouds rumbled with the first hint of thunder, a summer storm on the way. Most of the cars had left the parking lot by now, and any kids left at school had crowded underneath the shelters. Alice giggled suddenly. "Thanks, though."

"For what?"

"For, I don't know – for existing? It's nice, having you around."

"Oh really?" Joe raised his eyebrows. "I guess it's nice having you around, too. Especially if we—" He paused.

"Especially if what?"

"…Don't worry about it."

Alice smiled with the realisation. "You _really_ enjoyed that kiss, didn't you."

"Ummmm, sure. Obviously. I mean, who wouldn't?"

"You don't have to be embarrassed about it. Hey, tell you what – if you walk me home, you might get another one. Whaddaya say?"

Joe peered at his watch, then up at the sky. "Well, I'm pretty sure we can't get any wetter, so – I accept your offer." He pushed himself to his feet, then offered a hand to Alice. "Just in case we can get wetter, though, I think we'd better hurry."

"Sure! Sounds good." She pulled herself up and threw her bag over her shoulder. "Let's go."

Together, hand in hand, they walked across the grass, then through the gate and up the hill till they were swallowed by the mist. Before them, a whole new year awaited, revealed by a single, sudden kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the interests of full disclosure, a couple of scenes were inspired by/stolen from Freaks and Geeks, which is a totally brilliant TV show you should immediately marathon. (And man, I feel like the ending of this chapter is so stupidly cheesy it kind of wraps around to being good again. YMMV.)


	25. A Love Story

* * *

' _The recovered technology appears to operate via the principles of the Alcubierre drive, first proposed by physicist Michael Alcubierre in 1974. The drive is a propulsion system which can theoretically (and in this case, does) allow faster-than-light travel by generating an energy-density field lower than that of a vacuum. By surrounding a vehicle in a bubble of what is, essentially, 'negative mass', a spacecraft can traverse distances by contracting space in front of it and expanding space behind it, faster than the speed of light. Further investigation of the Lillian site is required to determine exactly how this bubble is generated, but the most obvious evidence for this negative mass concept is how metallic objects seem to 'fly' or 'levitate' when exposed to the alien technology…'_

**_\- Excerpt from a research paper, " Reverse-Engineering of FTL Concepts" by Phillips et al, published January 13_ _th_ _, 1983_ **

* * *

Joe sat at the dinner table with his father, cutting through some steak. Between them was a decent spread – beans, carrots, mashed potato, the aforementioned steak and gravy – and while his dad wasn't the best cook in the world, he'd been forced to learn quick. Their forks clinked against plates in gentle rhythm amid the patter of rain outside.

His hair was still wet, actually, from walking Alice to her house. They'd both been thoroughly drenched by the time they got there but that was just another thing to grin about; they'd stood there for a while, out of the rain, Joe squeezing the water from his schoolbag, Alice keeping him company by talking about nothing in particular. Then she'd leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world, and the feeling had kept him warm inside the whole way home. He smiled at the memory.

"What're you grinnin' about?" his dad asked.

"Um… nothing."

"Good first day, huh?"

"You could say that." Joe looked down at his plate. He remembered the fence pressing into his back, her arms around his shoulders, the smell of her hair, that strange, sweet look in Alice's eyes just before she closed them and their lips touched… "Thanks for the dinner, dad."

"Well, I know it's not a casserole, or a – a lasagne or anything, but at least I can fry a decent steak." Jack shrugged. "You're _still_ smiling about something, and I know it's not the food."

"Am I?"

"Yeah, you are. I'm glad."

Rain drummed against the windows, continuing late into the night.

* * *

The second day of school was less eventful that the first. It bore all the hallmarks of the familiar, monotonous routine that would make up most of their lives for the next three months: Maths, English, Science, Art, then two periods of Social Studies on Tuesday afternoon that were a real battle to stay awake through. Joe spent most of his time between classes carefully avoiding Todd, while Alice did the same on the other side of the school. They walked home together again in the afternoon, though this time the weather was thankfully a bit sunnier. Charles spent most of his time enthusiastically selling them on his movie idea – ' _which, by the way, you're gonna help me make'_ – and at lunchtime buried himself in a corner of the library, writing in his notebook. On Wednesday the unquestionable highlight was when Preston spilled orange juice all over his jeans (since the food certainly wasn't).

Rachel seemed to gravitate towards them in her quiet, unassuming way. In the morning, she had a visit to the school counsellor to say that yes, she was settling in well, and making some friends, and no, she didn't have any questions. As she left his office, she saw that Alice was the next appointment – they exchanged a 'hey' in the hallway, but she didn't ask why. She supposed it was none of her business.

* * *

Joe scrunched up his eyes in an attempt to make the numbers swim into focus. Stubbornly, they didn't. ' _Andrew has a jar containing four blue marbles and two green marbles. Without looking, he takes two marbles from the jar. What is the probability that two marbles with the same colour will be selected?'_ Their latest homework sheet for math was on the topic of probability, and he kept getting the wrong answers for what felt like easy questions. Somehow, his math scores had been good enough to move him up to the advanced class, which he was definitely _not_ enjoying so far.

"Preston, you have to help me with this," he muttered. "I think I'm about to murder Andrew and his jar of stupid marbles."

"Violence won't solve anything. Being methodical and following the textbook _will_ ," Preston replied. "That question is exactly like example fifteen. It's a cinch."

"For you, maybe."

"It's not that hard, seriously. I'll help you once I'm done with the next problem."

Since Joe, Preston and Martin were now Advanced Math buddies, they'd decided to crash at Martin's place after school on Wednesday to work through the first assignment. They sat around the dining room table, pens scribbling, books open, pausing occasionally to sigh or stare at the ceiling. Martin's parents and sister were out of the house, and since his dad was the town dentist and his mum was high up in some insurance company, it was a _nice_ house – big, tall ceilings, a sort of modern, clean look with bright airy lighting and fancy vases in the corners. The kitchen was filled with appliances and containers of leftover takeaway. An expensive bottle of wine sat half-open on the bench.

Joe put his pen down and stretched his fingers. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Join the club," Martin grunted.

"Okay, okay, I'll help." Preston rolled his eyes and shuffled his chair over to Joe. "Look here. The first way you can do this question is to list every possible outcome for taking marbles out from the bag. That's slow, and boring, but it works, especially for low numbers. Have you tried that?"

"Yep," Joe said. "Didn't work."

"Are you _sure_?"

"Yep."

"You must've done something wrong then. Never mind. The other, easier way you can do it is with the probability rules, which are—"

"Hey," Martin interrupted, "does anyone wanna lend me ten bucks?"

Preston snorted. "No! What for?"

"So I can buy a new Atari game tomorrow. I've nearly got enough, I just need another ten."

"Will I get to _play_ this new Atari game?" Preston asked suspiciously.

"Duh, of course. I'll pay you back."

"Why not ask your parents?" Joe said. "They're loaded, aren't they?"

"Yeah, but they never give me money for that kind of stuff." Martin paused, scribbling down another answer. "Okay, how about this. Will you guys _give_ me ten bucks if I do something gross?"

"…How gross?" Joe asked.

"I've got an idea. It's pretty gross."

* * *

The math books disappeared. In their place were several dozen bottles, jars, cans, containers, packets – every interesting liquid or powder they'd managed to find in the fridge and kitchen cupboards. The dining table was a multi-coloured forest of (hopefully) edible substances. Next to this sat a blender, a glass, and Martin.

"Alright, here's the bet," he said. "For ten bucks… I drink this much of anything." He held his fingers about ten centimetres apart.

"Anything?" Joe asked.

"Anything. As long as it's something you can eat. Only stuff from the kitchen, nothing from the bathroom and nothing from the garage."

"Okay." Preston shrugged.

"And it has to be _food_. Nothing from under the sink. No cleaners, no detergent, no – no furniture polish, and no cut up bits of sponge."

"Okay."

"I'm just trying to win ten bucks here, I don't wanna die."

"Alright, alright. Now, put on... the _blindfold_." Preston handed him a bright orange winter beanie, which Martin pulled down over his glasses.

"Better not mess up my hair," he muttered.

"Now step into… the _sound-proof booth_ ," Preston continued. This was a pair of protective earmuffs; Martin took them, slightly unsteadily.

"I'm trusting you guys," he warned them, facing their general direction. Then, slowly, he settled the earmuffs over his head. No sight, no sound; this way, the concoction would be wonderful, delicious surprise. Preston and Joe waited for a second, surveying the possibilities spread out on the dining table, then leaned together conspiratorially.

"Okay," Preston whispered. "Put in some mustard, it's an ipecac, it'll make him barf."

Joe winced. "Don't make him _barf_ , his mom cooks dinner in here!"

"If we're not trying to make him barf, then why are we doing this?"

"…I can hear everything you guys are saying," Martin said, the beanie still over his eyes.

"Then quit listening!" Joe retorted.

"I can't help it!"

"Then hum so you can't hear us," Preston suggested.

Quietly, tunelessly, Martin began humming to himself. _'Hm-hm-hm-hm-hmmmm, hm-hm. Hm. Hm…"_ Joe and Preston stood up and started circling round the table, picking out foods at random.

"Cayenne pepper," Preston said, holding up a dark jar.

"Ooh, good one! Pass me the pickle juice."

They began tipping stuff into the blender: _way_ too much pepper, the pickle juice (plus some actual pickles for good measure), and, after giving it a second thought, Joe added some of the mustard as well, which squirted over the rest with a satisfying _blaaaart._

"You know," Preston said, "my cousin once drank an entire jar of pickle juice. He had to sit on the toilet for ten hours."

"Oh, man, that's so bad."

"This is gonna be _great_. Let's add some maple syrup…"

"Salt… sardiiiines…" Joe layered the mixture with table salt, then opened a tin of sardines and dumped them on top. The slimy, plopping sound they made as they fell made Preston recoil in horror. "Aww, that's disgusting!"

"Vinegar." Joe tipped in a cup of the sour-smelling liquid. "Mmm, vinegar."

"Wait wait wait." Preston leaned over and grabbed a small red bottle. "Soy sauce."

"Soy sauce," Joe agreed. "And chilli – for texture." He added a whole can of the brown, sloppy beef chilli. In the background, Martin was still humming to himself, apparently the happiest man in the world. The blender was nearly full of the chunky green-brown potion.

"This is disgusting," Preston said again.

"Exactly."

"No, like – congratulations, this is really, truly disturbing." He poured in some ground coffee beans, then spooned a dark, wobbly substance on top. "A little bit of coffee, a little bit of jelly… grape flavoured, I think."

"Some creamy milk." Joe added a generous dash of white.

"And, to top it off, a couple of after-dinner mints!" In this case, 'a couple' meant half the packet.

Joe nodded in approval and handed him the blender lid. "Now mix it up."

Preston put the lid on with both hands and powered up the blender. The motor protested loudly as it tried to spin through the mixture, the green, yellow and grey combining to form a gloopy, dull brown. They could hear rattling inside as the mints spun round and round.

When they took the lid off, the smell was instantaneous. "Oh, wow," Joe said. He took a step back, covering his nose.

"It's _bubbling_ ," Preston said curiously. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to have the approximate consistency and colour of a chocolate milkshake, but with some extra, unidentified chunky bits within. The smell, though – the smell was something else. Indescribable, really. Preston smiled. He poured the mixture into Martin's waiting glass, then slapped his friend on the chest.

"Ouch!"

"Hey, showtime."

Martin stopped humming and took off the earmuffs, then rolled the beanie up over his head (it had, unfortunately, messed up his hair, which was spiked in all directions). He blinked, wiping his glasses, staring suspiciously at the half-filled cup before him.

"Let me see the money first," he said.

Grudgingly, Joe and Preston each dug a crumpled five-dollar bill out of their pockets, putting it down on the table. Martin looked at the money, then at the glass, then back at the money.

"Come on, drink up already!" Preston said, grinning.

"Don't _rush_ me," Martin retorted.

He took a few deep breaths, and picked up the cup with one hand. Then, without hesitating, he had a long, drawn-out sip, swallowing at least several mouthfuls of the thick brown liquid.

"Eeeeww!" Joe's brain couldn't decide whether to wince or laugh, so he ended up doing both in a weird facial contortion. Preston immediately stepped back to avoid any potential vomit.

Martin, for his part, didn't seem to mind. He put the glass down on the table with a barely-audible _tap_ , and sat there for a moment, thoughtfully licking his lips. He seemed… puzzled, but fine. "Not bad," he said eventually. "Not bad." He gave them a neutral glance, then kept drinking.

The mere sight of it was almost too much. "Dude, you're making me sick," Joe said. "Do you know what's _in_ that?"

"Well, obviously he doesn't, otherwise he wouldn't be so calm," Preston replied.

Martin ignored them and put the glass back down with about a third of the mixture remaining. He felt around inside his mouth with his tongue, trying to figure out what some of the lumps were. "The taste is okay. It's not that strong, there's a bit of everything. It feels kind of weird going down though—" Suddenly, he stopped and steadied himself against the table.

"What is it?" Joe asked.

"Man, my stomach doesn't feel so great."

Preston shrugged. "I'm not surprised, considering how those sardines blended right in."

"You put _sardines_ in here?"

"Yeah, of course. And that's not the worst part."

"Dude! I'M ALLERGIC TO FISH!" Martin shouted.

"…What?"

"I can't eat fish! It makes me – oh my _god_ I can't believe you put fish in there!"

Joe frowned. Now that he mentioned it, he _did_ remember Martin having some kind of seafood allergy. "Dude, I'm really sorry, I didn't think it would—"

"Shut up! Shut up." Martin stood up, so fast he knocked his chair over. "Oh, man, I think I'm gonna vomit. I think I'm… yep, I'm definitely gonna vomit." His shoulders heaved. "Out of the way, out of the way, GET OUT OF THE WAY—"

* * *

Joe knocked cautiously on the door of the bathroom. "Hey, Martin… are you okay in there?"

"No," came the sullen reply.

"'No' as in, we should call an ambulance? Or…"

"Don't call an ambulance. Just – gimme a couple more minutes. _Bleeeargh!_ " Joe heard Martin retch again as yet more of his stomach came rushing out of his mouth. It splattered wetly against the toilet bowl. "Oh, maaaan…" There was a flushing noise, then the sound of running water. The door stayed closed.

Joe decided to leave him be and tiptoed away from the bathroom. _Whoops. That could've gone better._ At least Martin would probably be okay, once he got through all the vomiting.

Back in the kitchen, Preston was cleaning up the last of the bottles and cans, putting them back in the cupboards where they'd found them. The remaining contents of the blender were washed down the sink where they belonged. It didn't take too long to wipe everything down, and before long the dining table was good as new.

"Can you see any air fresheners?" Preston asked as Joe walked in.

"I don't think so. Why?"

"It still kind of stinks in here – of fish, mainly. It seems weird to have tinned sardines around if your kid's allergic to them."

Joe shrugged. "Maybe his dad likes them or something. I feel pretty bad, though."

"Hey, Martin _was_ basically asking for it. Besides, he got his ten dollars. He'll be fine." Preston picked up his math book from the bench and put it back on the table. "So, about that probability question—"

Suddenly, they heard the front door open. There was the jingle of keys in the lock, the murmur of muffled conversation. Joe and Preston hurriedly sat down at the table and tried to look appropriately busy. A couple of seconds later, two people walked into the kitchen: Martin's dad, and… not Martin's mom, but another woman. His dad was tall, dressed in an ash-coloured suit, with a full head of greying hair and glasses even thicker than Martin's. The woman was quite pretty in a casual sort of way; nice hair, and a nice face, like someone you might see modelling clothes in a department store catalogue.

"Oh! Preston, Joe, I didn't expect to see you two." Victor Haverford looked somewhat surprised to have company. "What are you doing here?"

"Hello Dr. Haverford. We were just doing some homework together," Preston explained.

"Where's Martin?"

"He's… in the bathroom."

"Is that right. He's not sick again, I hope."

"Haha." Joe laughed nervously. "I don't think so."

"Well, good, because I swear he must have the worst immune system in the world." Dr. Haverford chuckled. "But I'm sorry, where are my manners – boys, this is an old, old friend of mine. From high school, actually, kind of like you and Martin are now. And Carol, these are some friends of my son's."

The woman smiled warmly. "Oh! Very nice to meet you." She stepped forwards and shook their hands.

"We haven't seen each other in, what – in how long?"

"Must be twenty years."

"Twenty years!" Dr. Haverford said enthusiastically. "Yeah, we just ran into each other, isn't that funny? I thought it would be nice to catch up. This might not be the best time though, if you're…" He ushered Carol out into the hallway. Joe could only catch a few sentences of their muted conversation.

" _—maybe you should come back tomorrow—"_

_"—some kind of problem?"_

_"—not when they're around—"_

"— _okay, I'll see you then—"_

Joe heard the door open and close again and exchanged a glance with Preston. A moment later, Dr. Haverford poked his head into the kitchen. "Alright, boys, I hope that wasn't too distracting. I'll be in my study if you need me. Keep working hard – or hardly working, haha." He disappeared around the corner, footsteps fading into silence.

Preston scribbled something in the margin of his notebook and passed it over to Joe: ' _That was weird, right?'_

' _Yeah_ ,' Joe wrote back. ' _But why?'_

* * *

The next day at lunch, Charles spotted Rachel winding through the crowd and waved her over to their table (it was only him and Cary today, and he _needed_ somebody else to chat with to avoid going mental). She paused for a moment, looking around, before sitting down with her tray.

"Sorry, were you planning on sitting somewhere else?" he asked.

"No, not really," she replied, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Where's everybody else?"

"Martin's sick, Preston's at a tutorial, and Joe's… doing something with Alice."

"What Charles _actually_ means," Cary interrupted, "is that they're making out behind the bike shed."

Rachel raised an eyebrow.

"They are NOT," Charles protested. "Can you imagine Joe kissing Alice?"

"No, but I can definitely imagine Alice kissing Joe," Cary replied.

Charles just rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He grabbed an apple from his lunchbox and took a huge bite, chomping it violently between his teeth. He turned to Rachel. "So—" _crunch_ "—have you had a good day?"

"Sure, it's been okay. I didn't get lost between classes today. That was nice. How about you?"

He said something unintelligible between mouthfuls of apple. "Ick's bee pree'ey ood doo, ba jigraffy wzz fuper bor'n."

Rachel frowned. "…I have no idea what you're saying."

Cary leaned over. "That's how I feel _all the time_ ," he whispered.

Charles punched him in the shoulder, then finally managed to swallow. "I said it's been pretty good too, but geography was super boring. Hey, did you think about what I told you on Monday?"

"About the movie?" Rachel asked. "Not really. It sounds interesting, though."

Cary chuckled, a little warily. "Oh, man. You dragged _her_ into this?"

"Sure, why not?"

"First it was Alice, now it's another girl…"

"So?" Charles stared at him, as if daring him to say something.

"I'm only thinking… do you remember what happened last time? Things went, like, crazy –totally insane. And that stuff should probably, you know… stay a secret, which might be hard, if…"

"Okay, now I have no idea what _you're_ saying," Rachel replied.

"It doesn't matter," Charles said quickly, "don't worry about it. We had a few problems making our last movie, but nothing serious."

Cary gave him a suspicious sort of look, but kept quiet.

" _Anyway_ ," Charles continued. "I wanted to ask your opinion about something. You read lots of books, right?"

"I guess so. Why?"

"Then you know what makes a good story. And when you're making a movie, the story is REALLY important. What's your favourite kind of book?"

"Ah – all sorts. Anything that's good."

"Sure. But what _makes_ it good?"

Rachel paused, her drink half-way to her lips. Charles' eyes were awfully serious, but also… alive. Sparkling with energy. She had to think about the answer. "I suppose it's when a story makes you feel something. Those are the ones you remember." _Like when your dad read you Lord of the Rings, one chapter a night for weeks and weeks and months, and even though you couldn't remember half the names and were probably asleep for most of it, you can still remember exactly how you felt when the last page turned. Or those hot, endless afternoons in new, unfamiliar towns, watching the other kids on the street from the balcony, having fun without you… but not caring, because there was still a case to be solved and only three chapters to go._

"Yeah! Exactly." Charles smiled, and pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. "That's what I'm trying to do – make it emotional. It has to be a good script."

"With zombies," Cary added.

" _Without_ zombies. Zombies was last time. This time, it's gonna be a love story."

"With time travel."

"Yeah, with time travel, but it's mainly a love story. It HAS to be a love story," Charles insisted. "That's where the emotion comes from. Listen, this is how it starts."

Rachel listened intently as Charles explained his movie idea, head cocked slightly to one side. Her jet-black eyes seemed slightly distant, but that was only because she was thinking intently, cogs whirring in her mind. Charles already had a pretty decent plan; it was interesting, and clever. Lots of possibilities. His enthusiasm was catching in the way he talked, leaning forwards, always moving, smiling one second and frowning the next.

And it was _simple_ , in a refreshing sort of way, just how much he cared about it. It was like there was no room to worry about anything else; no room to worry about moving to a new town, or making friends, or the strange things you sometimes saw your dad working on at night. Not having to worry was… nice. Charles seemed nice, too. And Cary was nice, even though he pretended to be annoying, and Joe and Alice, who were apparently making out, and Martin with the huge glasses and Preston with the pointy nose.

A couple of minutes later, Charles finished his pitch. Rachel sat there for a moment, taking it all in.

Then she leaned forwards and cracked her fingers. "Okay. I might have some ideas," she said.

Charles' eyes lit up. "Really?"

"You tell me if you like them or not. But, I think it'd be smarter if you linked the reason for the time travel to the reason for the person's death."

"Yeah, great! That sounds awesome. How would you connect them though?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to think about it."

"Zombies?" Cary suggested. "Time-travelling zombies?"

Together, they started adding to Charles' notebook, bouncing ideas across the table.

* * *

Five minutes earlier and two hundred metres eastward, Joe and Alice were not, in fact, making out. Instead, they were sitting around the back of gymnasium, facing out across the sports oval. It was a small and secluded spot sandwiched between a couple of buildings; the spectator stands on the left, the bike shed on the right, and a few scraggly trees drooping low over the grass. The oval stretched for nearly a hundred metres before meeting a fence on the far side, and the football team was training on it now, a dozen armoured figures sprinting back and forth. Joe's fingers were intertwined with hers as they sat – side by side, legs crossed, under a cool patch of shade. With his free hand, he grabbed his sandwich and took a thoughtful bite.

"So, here's a fun question," Alice said. "If you could choose one thing in the world to be really, really good at, what would it be?"

"Anything?"

"Yep, anything you want."

"…Wizardry," Joe said.

Alice giggled. "That is _not_ an answer."

"Why not? Wouldn't you want to be a really good wizard?"

"Yeah, but it's impossible to be a wizard in the first place. It doesn't count."

"Okay. Okay. Then…" He thought for a moment. "Talking to people. Like, communicating. I feel like that's super useful."

"Definitely, good answer."

"What would you pick?"

"I don't know. Maybe… concentrating? If you could concentrate really well, you could learn how to do anything you wanted. Learn a musical instrument, speak a new language…"

Joe took another bite of his sandwich, realised it was kinda gross – _egg and tuna, NEVER AGAIN –_ and put it back in his lunchbox. At least he still had a muesli bar left. Across the oval, one of the gridiron boys had scored a touchdown and was running around, collecting high-fives.

"Do you want some of mine?" Alice asked. "I'm not really hungry."

"No, that's okay. I'm not that hungry either. Did you see the news last night?"

"No, why?"

"Apparently Russia is planning to invade somewhere. Iran, or… Afghanistan, maybe? One of those countries. It sounded pretty serious."

"Oh, wow. Does that mean America's going to do something?"

"I don't know. The President made a speech about it, but I missed the last part."

Alice sighed. "Imagine what would happen if there actually was a war. Scary, huh."

"Yeah, a bit." Joe looked up at the sky. They still had an emergency drill every term at school about what to do in case there was a nuclear attack; it never seemed very helpful. Hiding under a desk wouldn't do much good against a missile. "Hey, that cloud looks like a turtle."

"Which one?"

"That one." He pointed.

"It totally does," Alice said, smiling. "It's got the patterns on its shell and everything. Did I ever tell that turtles are my favourite animal?"

"No," Joe said accusingly. "Although I'm pretty sure you laughed at _me_ when I said I liked seals."

"Yeah, sorry. I guess, we're both pretty weird."

They glanced up at the bright blue sky, laced with puffy white clouds. The turtle-cloud was right above them, drifting slowly westwards; all around it were streaks of white, as if a paintbrush had been dragged across the heavens. Alice twisted around. Carefully, she put one hand behind her head, leaning back till she was resting on the grass. After a moment, Joe joined her. He stretched his legs out, lying straight. A branch overhead shielded their eyes from the sun.

The sky looked even bigger from down here – huge, and blue, and endless. Clouds wandered over the hills, some of them resembling animals, or distorted, wispy faces, while others had no shape at all.

"So, Russia…" Alice murmured.

She left the thought unfinished. He felt her hand squeeze his a little, and he turned his head to look at her.

Suddenly, it struck him how beautiful she was. _What does she see in me?,_ he wondered. _I'm just a kid with a round face and 'your mother's eyes' and a stupid pimple on his cheek that won't go away._ But she was there, next to him; the light dusting of freckles on her nose, soft lips turned up in a smile, clear blue eyes that reflected the world with curious determination. Her skin glowed like a ghost's in the sunlight. He couldn't help it as his eyes travelled downwards, following her neck, her shoulders, then the gentle curve of her chest, and the way it pressed slightly against the fabric of her shirt…

"Joe?"

"Wh-what?" His heart skipped a beat.

"Did you find another cloud? You kinda zoned out there for a while."

"Nothing. It's nothing." He felt his cheeks flush a little, and willed himself to stay calm. _It's only natural to think about that stuff, right? That's what they say in health class, anyway._ "I totally missed everything you just said."

"That's okay," Alice replied. "Do you remember what Martin was saying about the army base a couple of days ago?"

He paused as his brain rewound back to Monday. "You mean the one in Springfield? Where he wants to look around for clues, and… aliens, and stuff?"

"Yeah, that. Because I thought about it, and I'm pretty sure I have a way to get us in. Officially, I mean – without the sneaking around."

"Oh. Really?"

Alice propped herself up on one elbow, facing him. "I had a meeting with the school counsellor this morning, and it turns out he's the one in charge of our class excursion next week," she began.

"...We have an excursion next week?"

"Yeah, next Thursday. You should've gotten a letter about it for your dad to sign. Anyway, he said he actually hadn't organised it yet because he couldn't think of a good place to go, so I mentioned that since a lot of students are a little scared of the military at moment – for obvious reasons – maybe it would be a good idea to go on a tour of a military base or museum or something, to show us how safe the army is and how they want to protect us and all that crap."

"Uh- _huh_."

"And because Springfield is the biggest base that's close to Lillian, and because I'm pretty sure they do public tours already… I suggested that would be a good place to go."

"And he bought it?" Joe asked.

"I'm not sure." Alice frowned. "He said it was a 'tubular' idea, and that he'd 'jam about it' with the 'other freaks'. I think that means it's under consideration by the teachers."

"Huh. Well, I—"

 _BRIIINNGGG!_ Suddenly the school bell rang, signalling the end of lunchtime. Together, they got up and dusted themselves off, just in time to see the turtle disappear over the horizon. _A proper visit to the base? That could be interesting. It might be difficult to actually do anything useful if we're trapped on a school excursion, but it's definitely better than nothing._

* * *

At 1 AM in Lillian, very few things stirred. There were insects, of course, buzzing and chirping; a few cats, too, out on the prowl, hunting or fighting or looking for love. Washing lines swayed listlessly in the gentle night-time breeze, the same breeze that pushed leaves across the streets in lazy, irregular spirals. Very occasionally, there would be a car – perhaps even a person – on their way back home after a party, or, possibly, after engaging in some activities best suited to the time after midnight. In the caverns beneath the Lillian water tower, though, the things that moved were somewhat more mysterious.

The cavern was different to how it had appeared three months ago, on that fateful night when the alien had disappeared. Most of the stolen machinery and metallic debris had been removed, dragged along as part of its ship, and anything that remained – some heavy engine parts, strips of cabling, a strange arrangement of radio antennas – was surrounded by scaffolding and cordoned off with plastic sheets, to allow the military clean-up crew to study it in isolation. The cave seemed bigger, emptier by comparison, the bare walls fully exposed (regular and deeply-grooved, as if they'd been excavated by a machine, not an animal). At the roof of the chamber, the concrete pad and supports of the new water tower loomed amongst the shadows.

It was almost pitch-black inside but for a single small spotlight, connected to a quietly-humming generator. The spotlight illuminated a cone-shaped area near the rear of the cavern, casting it in a dusty yellow glow, throwing flickering, long shadows that slowly merged into darkness.

In the cone of light, Dr. Malcolm Phillips peered closely at a circuit board. The board was quite complex, perhaps taken from one of those new Apple computers: about thirty centimetres square, dull green, studded with capacitors and metallic contacts. Strangely, it was covered in a hard, transparent layer – some kind of organic secretion? – and within the layer, thin wires spiralled this way and that, connecting dozens of different components. More of the secretion attached the circuit board to the side of an electrical transformer box, sticking it there like glue, and several wires led from the board to somewhere inside the transformer's casing.

It was a bit difficult to see them in the spotlight's weak glow. The doctor took a glowstick from his coat pocket and cracked it sharply, and soon, its soft green radiance was added to the spotlight's yellow. He held it up to the circuit board, trying to follow the wires from connection to connection. _Why was this part needed? What was it used for? Why was it left behind? So many questions._ It was truly remarkable that an extra-terrestrial being could use human technology in such a way, to facilitate an entirely new purpose. An engineer by trade, Dr. Phillips had only recently started working with the Department of Defence's Argus Project, and he wondered why he hadn't done it sooner. Sure, the whole thing was sworn to ridiculous levels of secrecy, and there were some serious threats involved, but the funding was insane and you got to play with some _very_ cool toys…

He took two wires with a pair of tweezers and slowly, carefully brought them together. As they touched, there was a slight spark and – _whoomph!_ The clear substance around the circuit board immediately melted, dripping like honey, flowing together to form a round, inky sphere suspended perfectly still in the air.

 _Ah, yes!_ _Brilliant! That's certainly an interesting link… It works in exactly the same way as the other object that was found, deep in that cave in the snow._

Dr. Phillips scraped off a section of the sphere with his tweezers – it was hard, yet pliable, like warm rubber – and walked back to the base of the spotlight to deposit it in a sample bag. When he got there, he noticed that the pale man was watching him.

The pale man stood perhaps twenty metres away, out of the light, on a small rise in the dirt. As always, he was dressed in a plain black suit: white shirt, dress shoes, his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall, spindly; the clothes hung off him like they might a scarecrow. His skin was so pale, so devoid of colour that it was almost pure white. (This gave him his name, since no one knew his real one.) His face was nondescript, the features maybe a little flat, but his eyes… his eyes were pure black orbs. They were the kind of eyes you didn't want staring at you from a darkened corner.

As they were now. In all his time working on the project, Malcolm had never seen the pale man blink. He was always just… standing there, a little out of the light. _Always silent. Always watching._ People assumed that he was a government official, but again, this was uncertain.

With a shiver, Dr. Phillips turned back to his task. He was the only one still working in the cavern at this hour. At times like these he always wondered if that was such a good idea. Strange grey lumps hung from the roof of the cave, almost like fruit, or… cocoons, maybe, and, well… they were _human_ sized. In the back of your mind, you had to wonder what was inside them. You had to wonder if you were working amongst the dead, with skeletons in the shadows and the pale man watching from the dark…

But that was a thought for the biologists. His job was electronics, and that was more than enough to worry about. He disconnected the wires but the inky sphere remained: it floated above the circuit board, murky and still. This fact alone was remarkable; it meant that the sphere (whatever it did) was self-powering, needing only a spark to give it some initial energy. _And, even more remarkable…_ He leaned closer, and when his face was a foot away from it, the sphere started to glow. Softly, at first, a dim orange, then brighter and brighter. The doctor thought of his children, and the sphere turned green. He thought of the pale man, and the sphere turned an ominous grey.

_Amazing. It responds to thoughts, exactly like the other one. There must be some connection there, some common link between traits – if the artefacts in Antarctica were the same it can't be a coincidence. They have the same mechanism, the same telepathic response, except those parts were more advanced, and far older. Maybe they were the originals and this is an imitation?_

At some point, the pale man left, disappearing as unnoticeably as he'd arrived. The doctor continued working for an hour longer, documenting all that he could.

Unbeknownst to him, another set of eyes watched him from the shadows. Hidden behind a boulder, a figure watched and waited… and when it had observed everything it needed to, it silently backed away into the tunnels.

* * *

On the other side of the world, a woman sits in a cool, air-conditioned office. It's daytime but the blinds are drawn, speckling the floor with slits of sunlight. The woman wears a jacket and skirt and her brown hair is tied back in a businesslike bun. She looks like a journalist of some kind. Before her, on a table, is a small CRT television.

She puts a tape in the VCR and presses 'play'. After a moment, the screen flickers to life, and in the corner it shows the date the tape was recorded: 08/04/79. Last week.

The recording begins.

It's a home video, shot from inside a house, looking out into the garden. A dozen children are pressed up against a window. They seem agitated about something – something outside. Some are pointing, standing on tiptoes to get a better view. Others turn to the camera with frightened expressions. Most are seven or eight years old. Their high-pitched voices exclaim in a language other than English. It is dark – the lights in the house are off – and the camera operator steps closer so that they can see above the children's heads. Somewhere, a dog is barking, barely audible above the racket.

Out in the garden, two tables are set up. One is covered with food: chips, pies, a cake with blue icing. Half-finished paper plates lie around the edge. The other table is piled high with presents, brightly wrapped and tied with ribbons. Colourful balloons are tied to the fence and streamers stretch across the yard.

 _A birthday party_ , the woman realises.

In the rush to get inside, several chairs were knocked over, and they lie askew in the grass. The sky above is flat and grey. Surrounding the yard is a thick hedge, several metres high, with long, dark leaves and other tropical vegetation. The leaves and balloons whip back and forth in a strong, gusting wind. The camera zooms in on a gap in the hedge. The view blurs, out of focus. It's too dark to see if anything is there. The leaves flutter. Inside the house, the children continue to shout, still pointing, still trying to see.

Then one of them _does_ see something. The children start rushing to the side, towards another window. Some of them are wearing party hats. The camera follows through the dark, unlit house. Soon, they stop, piling up before a glass sliding door. There's too many of them; they're blocking the camera's view.

" _Move!_ " the woman whispers, on the edge of her seat.

The camera manages to get around. Through the door is a narrow, dirt-strewn laneway. On the left is the faded red wall of the next house; on the right is the tall, dark garden hedge. Ten yards away, at the end of the alley is a cobbled road.

One of the children is right next to the camera. He turns to the lens, explaining, or describing something. He seems afraid. The other children are all looking through the glass door. The camera zooms in on the end of the alley, to where it meets the road. The back of a parked car can just be seen, by the façade of another house. The hands of the cameraman are shaking.

The view stays like this for a long, strange moment. And then—

 _Something crosses the mouth of the alley._ It is blurred, large, only visible for half a second. The children start screaming. The camera swings up, then down again, then back to the alley. Nothing is there. Just the house, and the parked car, and the windy, grey sky. The children run.

And the recording stops.

The woman shivers. She grabs the remote and rewinds the tape, back to the moment when the _thing_ crosses the alley. The terror of the children is unmistakeable. She leans closer to the television, and, fighting back her apprehension, hits 'pause' just as it appears.

 _Grey, greenish skin. Long, gnarled arms. A strange ellipsoid head, and a nightmarish, gaping mouth._ At this moment, frozen on her screen, it appears to be staring straight at the camera. Straight at the children. Straight at her.

It's like nothing she's ever seen.

* * *

Their last class on Friday was music. This was a part of the school's renewed focus on 'culture and the arts', which meant that, sadly, it was compulsory whether you liked it or not. Instead of a small, optional class, filled with people who could actually play (or wanted to learn), as it had been last year, it was now a circus of thirty students with mostly very little ability and no real desire to be there. The larger class size also meant it was difficult for a teacher to truly _teach_ them anything, and so it appeared that the general idea of music was 'here, take this weird-looking thing and try and make a sound with it'. Controlled chaos would be a good description.

This week, they were learning guitar, on the cheapest instruments the school could buy. The rehearsal room twanged with discordant notes, a dozen different harmonies echoing in jarring rhythms. Students sat on chairs and desks and the floor, concentrating furiously as they contorted their fingers into the right positions. Muttered cursing erupted every time someone messed up eleven bars into 'Twelve-Bar Blues'. A few half-finished rock choruses sailed over the top from the players who had some experience… including a pretty decent rendition of 'Smoke on the Water' from one Todd Ingram.

Joe stared at him glumly from the other side of the room. _Of COURSE he can play the guitar. Of course_. Todd was sitting in a circle with his other basketball buddies, casually strumming along. Alice had given him some of the less ugly details of the whole saga, which explained why Todd was so pissed at him all of a sudden. (To be honest, Joe hadn't really paid attention to Todd last year – he'd just assumed that if Alice already had a boyfriend, what chance did he have? It had taken a set of extremely special circumstances to get where they were now).

Todd noticed Joe's gaze and narrowed his eyes a little, but kept playing.

"Ignore him," Alice murmured. "He's just some douche with an acoustic guitar."

"Yeah. I know." _But he's some douche that_ also _wants to kill me_. Joe sighed, looking down at the neck of his instrument. He made his fingers match the positions on the music sheet and plucked the middle three strings. Apparently, that was an E-major chord. It sounded pretty good.

Charles and Cary were also next to him. Charles hadn't even touched his guitar yet and was busily writing in his notebook instead, while Cary was holding his upside-down and attempting to play it with his feet. Against all odds, he was having some success.

"Dude, Mrs. Bongers is going to be pissed if you break that thing," Charles hissed.

"She'll be pissed if she sees you're not even playing," Cary retorted. "What're you writing about, anyway?"

"My movie script, obviously."

" _Still_? You've been working on that thing for three days straight."

"Yeah, I know, I'm almost done with the first part though. It's really cool."

"It'd better be." Cary picked up the guitar and grudgingly started trying to use it properly. "And it'd better have zombies in it. Or else."

Suddenly, Mrs. Bongers herself swept in through the door of the rehearsal room, with all the force and bearing of a tsunami. She was toweringly big woman with a voluptuous, faintly regal air – the kind of person who, if you put her in armour, would've looked completely at home leading a cavalry charge in medieval Europe. When she spoke, every word was like a hearty slap on the back and clanged with self-assurance.

"Excuse – me!" she commanded.

Immediately, the room fell silent. Everyone's ears gave a sigh of sweet relief.

"Now, listen closely, for I have an announcement," she continued. "For the first time, Lillian will be entering the Queens Cup music competition! This is a competition for school bands from around the state. Our concert band and jazz band will be entering – as well as the school choir – but there is no limit as to how many bands may enter from the same school. Therefore" – at this point, her lips curled with barely-concealed distaste – "therefore, any of you who wish to form bands of your own may do so. I believe there is a category for rock 'music'. The competition does not begin for several months, but please practice hard if you are in the school band, and I would urge you to give it some consideration if you are interested. That is all. Continue."

She swept out of the room again, leaving silence in her wake. Gradually, it was filled with the sound of twanging guitars.

"You hear that?" Cary said enthusiastically. "We can make a band. Wouldn't that be cool? We _should_ make a band. Charles, you still got your trumpet?"

"Yeah," he grunted, focused on writing.

"Do you remember how to play it?"

"Not really – _you_ try practicing a trumpet in a house with seven other people. Besides, I don't have time to enter random music competitions. Are there even any prizes?"

"She didn't say."

"So no, then," Charles deduced.

Cary shrugged. "I still think it'd be cool. Are there any prizes for your stupid movie contests?"

"Yeah, sure. We get money if we win."

"We get _money_?!"

Alice leaned over and pointed at Joe's sheet music. "Hey, do you think you can play the bottom part?"

"Uh, maybe. I think I've nearly got it."

"If you play the bottom part, I can play the top part and we can see how it sounds together."

"Sounds good. Well, hopefully." Joe grinned and glanced at the music. There were only three different chords, and therefore only three different positions for his fingers, but it was useful to try and remember them ahead of time (everything looked pretty similar, so it was hard to switch on the fly). He whispered under his breath. "C-major chord four times, then F-major, then G… okay, I think I'm ready."

"Cool. I'll start." Alice looked down and found her own finger positions. "I don't really know how this works… do I count us in?"

"Count to four, then start," Charles murmured.

"Oh, thanks. Well, here goes: one, two, three, four—"

She counted a bit too slowly, but that was probably a good thing – it gave them a bit more time to figure out what the heck they were doing. Joe began strumming the chords while Alice plucked out a single-note melody over the top. The rhythm was jerky, and there were a whole bunch of wrong notes in there, but – it kinda worked. _F chord, F chord, C chord, C chord, C cho— aah that was supposed to be a G!_ Joe mangled his fingers half-way through and played a few interesting B-flats before recovering.

"Jazzy. I like it," Alice said cheerfully. She was racing ahead a bit and slowed back down until they were in sync again. "One more time?"

"Sure."

They reached the end and went back to the beginning, this time slightly steadier. Their playing was already improving, the chords getting clearer, the notes more in-tune. It was fun, and Joe couldn't help but smile. _This is pretty cool. Never mind that it's probably the simplest song you could ever learn._

Then Cary started tapping along, thumping out a rhythm with one hand on the side of his guitar. It was complete nonsense – some kind of African-bongos-sounding thing – but it mixed with the song anyway. _Ta-ta-ta-tap tap, ta-tap tap tap tap…_ Alice snorted, struggling to keep a straight face while struggling to keep in time. Cary added some extra beats with his feet and Joe sped up, trying to put him off. It didn't work. _Ta-ta-ta tap tap ta-tap tap tap!_

When they reached the end, Cary collapsed in a fit of giggles.

Joe gave him a mock glare. "That was _good_ until you joined in."

"You mean it was good _when_ I joined in."

"I dunno, I think the African thing worked," Alice said, grinning. "In our band, Cary should be on drums."

"That would be AWESOME," he said enthusiastically.

At that, Charles looked up; with a theatrical flourish, he snapped his notebook shut. "Firstly, we are NOT making a band. Secondly, I think your parents would hate you even more if you started learning the drums. And third" – he held up the notebook, waving it back and forth – "I've finished the first draft of the script."

"That was fast," Alice said.

"Yeah, I guess," Charles replied, suddenly embarrassed. "I couldn't stop writing once I started."

 _I know that feeling_ , Joe recalled. _I stayed up all night writing Alice's scenes for_ The Case _…_

"Anyway," Charles said, "I was hoping you guys could come and film something tonight."

"Tonight," Alice said flatly.

"Yeah, tonight. I know it's late notice, but it's Friday – you guys don't have anything planned, right? I _really_ want to get the first part on film. If we do that, it'll be a huge deal, and it'll make the rest of the story a lot clearer."

"Am I in this movie?" Alice asked.

"Yeah, you're the lead actor. Well, one of them."

"I haven't even seen any of my lines! How am I supposed to—"

"That's the cool part! There are no lines. You don't need to memorise anything."

"…there are no lines," Alice repeated, somewhat suspiciously.

"Only for the first scene," Charles explained. "You'll get it when I show you. Anyway, I'm really sorry I didn't ask you before about acting, but I… I kind of assumed you'd say yes."

"Well, you were right, but it's a little sudden." Alice thought for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes. "I'll ask my dad, I'm sure he'll let me go. Unless you need me to drive again; then you can forget about it."

"No no, it's fine, my dad agreed to take us in his van. Joe? Cary? You in?"

Charles gave them his best sad-puppy-dog look, and both of them were powerless to resist. (It wasn't like they had anything better to do anyway, and Joe was already looking forward to whatever Charles had cooked up.)

"I'm in," Cary said.

Joe nodded. "Yep. I'll have to ask, but it should be OK."

"Great. You guys are awesome." Inwardly, Charles breathed a sigh of relief. The notebook was a comforting weight in his pocket. "Oh, and – I also asked that new girl to come along," he said. "Rachel."

There was a moment of quiet amidst the surrounding cacophony of guitars. Alice frowned. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"That's what I said," Cary grumbled. "But does he ever listen? _Noooo…_ "

"It'll be fine," Charles insisted. "We just won't tell her anything weird."

"Weird?" Joe asked.

"Yeah. I mean, we won't talk about aliens and stuff. That's it."

"Well, okay. If you say so," Alice said doubtfully. She gave Joe a questioning look, but he merely shrugged in reply.

 _Once Charles has made up his mind about something, it's nearly impossible to get him to change it. And who knows, it might be useful to have another person around – as Charles said, we'll just have to be careful what we talk about. It'll be fun!_ Already, he could feel the anticipation starting to build in his chest. Besides, there was no way it could be worse than the previous 'first scene' that they'd filmed, when half the countryside had decided to explode. Could it?

* * *

Martin checked around the house to make sure no one was home. He checked his parents' bedroom, the study, the lounge, his sister's room, even the garden out back… but he was the only one there. His parents were still out, both working late today, while his sister was staying at a friend's place, doing sister-y slumber party things.

He picked up the phone and dialled the number for Joe's house. It was four or five rings before someone answered.

" _Hello?_ " Jack Lamb's voice crackled.

"Hello Mr. Lamb. It's Martin."

" _Oh, hi Martin, I'll hand you over to Joe."_

"No, no, that's okay," Martin said nervously. "I actually wanted to speak to you."

_"You wanna speak to me? About what?"_

"It's… it's hard to explain. Can I ask you something?"

" _Sure, Martin. Ask away._ "

He thought for a moment, glancing round the empty house. "It might be better if you come over here. Then I can show you in person. It's… sort of police business, I guess."

" _Uh – okay. I'm off duty, but I can drop by. I'll see you in fifteen minutes?"_

"Thanks, Mr. Lamb."

" _No worries, Martin. See you soon."_

* * *

Jack knocked on the front door of the Haverford house and stepped back to wait. No cars were parked in the drive; Victor and Cynthia were away, obviously. Probably working. He couldn't help but be a bit curious as to what Martin's call had been about. Usually, when a kid called the police department it was bad news, but he hadn't sounded distressed over the phone.

Half a minute later, Martin answered the door. "Hello Mr. Lamb. Thanks for coming."

"No problem. Can I come in?"

"Of course."

Jack followed him inside the house. As always, he was struck by its size, and how clean everything looked – instead of the usual mish-mash of styles, furniture and random trinkets, everything seemed to fit together. The Haverfords had money, that was for sure. Martin led him through to the kitchen and offered him a seat at the dining table.

 _Better make some conversation, make the kid feel more comfortable. Though I've still got no idea why I'm here._ He noticed a stack of odd-looking folders on the table. "Busy with homework?" he asked kindly.

"Um, not really…" Martin quickly grabbed the folders and put them in a drawer.

"You and Joe are going out tonight to do some movie stuff, right?"

"Yeah, after dinner."

"Well, I'll tell you what I told him: have fun, but don't do anything stupid." Jack smiled. "Now, what is it you wanted to show me?"

* * *

Preston ran from corner to corner of his room, chucking anything useful onto his bed. _Film, cables, snacks, costumes…_ He opened his closet and scanned the hangers, trying to remember which ones they'd used last time; _that thick trenchcoat, definitely, and a few of the hats as well_ —

"Preston?" his mother called out, voice echoing through the doorway.

"Mom, I'm getting ready!" he yelled back. He grabbed an armful of clothes at random and dumped them next to everything else. It'd have to do. Now, he needed something to put everything in. _Where did I drop my schoolbag?…_

"Preston, how are you getting to Charles' place?" his mom asked.

"I'm gonna walk!"

"And then his parents are driving you to… wherever you're going?"

"Yes!"

The schoolbag was crammed under his desk. He unzipped it, emptied everything out onto the floor and began stuffing the movie gear into it. _I swear, Charles thinks the world revolves around HIM sometimes. I had plans tonight. Plans! It would've been_ really _great to have had more notice than, 'hey, we're doing movie stuff tonight, can you be ready in like, ten minutes?' ARGH._ Of course, his plans had basically been 'lie in bed and read a book', but at least that was a known quantity. Charles hadn't even told him where they were going, for god's sake.

He did a quick check around his room just in case he'd forgotten anything. It didn't look like it; he had the extension cables, the costumes, a couple of muesli bars for later. Preston slung the backpack over his shoulder, switched off the light and shut the bedroom door behind him.

"Okay mom, I'm going!"

"Wait! Wait—" She caught him just as he was about to leave. "Don't be back too late, alright?"

"I won't."

His mom sighed. She had the same black curly hair as he did – longer, of course – and her eyes were shielded by a thin pair of glasses. "I'll let you go this time, but I don't want you spending too much time on these movie projects during semester. You're in high school, now. Grades are important."

"I _know_. I've got plenty of time to study."

"You do now, but this can't happen every weekend." She gestured out the door. "Go on."

"Thanks, mom. I'll be back soon, I promise."

He disappeared down the front path, jogging into the twilight. His mother watched him go, then slowly shut the door.

Preston's father waited in the hallway.

"He's going out to see his friends," his mom said, by way of explanation. "I think Charles called him."

"I see."

Preston's parents, like most people who'd lived together for nearly twenty years, could often tell what each other were thinking. It wasn't telepathy, not by a long shot, but from a person's face and body language and the look in their eyes – sometimes, it wasn't hard to know.

And in this case, they were both thinking the same thing. "Those kids are up to something," his dad said firmly.

She nodded. "Definitely. Up to… what, though?"

"Something happened to them when that fire hit the town. They haven't been the same since."

"Mmm. Maybe it's still happening; Preston certainly clams up every time I ask about it, and he's very eager to share his thoughts on just about everything else."

They paused in contemplation.

"Let's keep an eye out," his father murmured. "I'm sure they'll be fine tonight, but one of these days…" He left the thought unfinished. "Maybe ask that army officer about it, next time he comes around. Though I doubt he'll tell us anything either."

"I'll try. He's our kid, after all – he's not supposed to have _that_ many secrets."

* * *

Charles' dad dropped them off in the parking lot, the minivan sputtering to a stop. Mr. Kaznyk wiped his brow and turned in his seat to face the assembled film crew. "Alright guys, I'll be back before ten to pick you up—"

"Woooo!" Cary whooped and wriggled out of his seatbelt, throwing open the door of the van. The others leapt out one by one, their feet thumping onto the cement, and Charles ran around and opened the trunk so that they could start unloading their gear.

Mr. Kaznyk shook his head. "I swear we never had this much fun as children," he muttered to himself. "Kids these days, with their TV shows, and their comic books…"

Joe grabbed his makeup toolbox with one hand and a bag of costumes with the other. Preston pulled out the camera tripod and swung it over his shoulder, almost smacking Alice in the head with it. As usual when everyone was excited, about three different conversations were happening at once.

Charles: "Okay, Martin, you're in this scene, but all you have to do is—"

Martin: "I'm supposed to be acting?! I haven't even seen my lines!"

Alice: "If our _esteemed director_ is telling the truth, apparently we don't have lines."

Martin: "We don't have lines? What kind of movie IS this?"

Cary: "Hey, Preston, you can play piano, right? Do you wanna join my band?"

Preston: "Yes, I play the piano. No, I do not want to join your band."

Rachel: "Um… do you want me to carry anything?"

Charles: "It's a good movie. Have you seen The Godfather?"

Alice: "Nope."

Martin: "Your parents let you watch The Godfather?"

Charles: "It has this collection of scenes in it – it's called a montage – that doesn't have any dialogue. Instead, it's set to music. That's what I'm trying to do."

Preston: "Is anyone actually in your band, or is it just a hypothetical concept?"

Cary: "I'm in my band. Joe said he'd be in it too."

Joe: "I totally didn't."

Rachel: "Hey, do you need me to take something?"

Joe smiled. "You can carry this if you want – thanks." He gave her the makeup box and the bag and went to grab something heavier. Rachel had been silent for the whole trip, sitting quietly in the back of the van, but it _was_ pretty difficult to get a word in when the rest of them were chatting away. Charles' dad waved them goodbye, and together, they started walking down the shore.

The location for tonight's filming was Mammoth Lake, ten miles north of town. In contrast to expectations it was actually fairly small – shaped a bit like a horseshoe, and you could easily see the far side – but some well-preserved mammoth fossils had been found there in the 1800s and given it its name. The lake was nestled in the Lillian foothills, fed by a tributary from the Great Lakes to the north, and was surrounded on every side by thick coniferous woodland. Fallen branches littered the beach. On this particular evening the surface was calm, lapping at the gravelly shore.

Because it was the only significant body of water nearby, the lake had been developed into a local tourist spot. From the parking lot, a wide path led through the forest, to a group of log cabins by the water (simple, but nice to stay at for a weekend). Next to the cabins was a small clearing, featuring a general store and an information centre about mammoths. An old, weather-beaten boat shed squatted on the beach with a jetty stretching out into the water. In the very centre of the lake was a tiny island – lush, green, barely rising above the surface – that had been the site of countless childhood adventures and treasure hunts.

As they rounded a bend in the path, the sun flashed from the surface of the lake. It was low, almost at the hilltops; long shadows fell across the forest. Light rippled on the water with a magical yellow glow, painting the world around them in a warm, golden haze.

Charles stopped in his tracks. "Oh my god. That light…" he breathed. "That light is _amazing_. Guys, we have to hurry – HURRY!" Charles started running, head bobbing up and down. The rest of them followed a second later with varying degrees of confusion.

"Charles, what are we—"

"Faster! We've only got a few minutes before the sun sets!" he yelled.

"If I run any faster I'm going to drop the camera!" Martin protested.

"FASTER!"

Luckily, the path was downhill the entire way, so the run wasn't too tiring. The only thing Joe had to worry about was tripping over his own feet; he skidded on a patch of pine needles and almost fell flat on his face.

"You okay?" Alice asked, somewhere behind him.

"I'm fine. I'm fine." His heart thumped.

"Charles, where are we _going_?" Preston asked.

"To the pier! Hurry!"

They jogged past the log cabins, huffing and puffing, past the store, then up the ramp to the boat shed, awkwardly carrying their strange collection of poles and bags and cables. "Great! Put everything here!" Charles ordered. "Oh man, the lighting is amazing—"

Gratefully, they dumped their gear on the deck that surrounded the boat shed. The shed was ten yards to a side and made of blue-painted weatherboard; it stood half in, half out of the water on thick wooden pylons.

"Okay, we're filming on the end of the pier," Charles announced. "I want the camera set up, but we don't need the microphone. Martin and Alice are acting. Got it?"

"No!" Alice said, an edge of frustration in her voice. "Charles, it'd be _great_ if we knew what the hell we're doing!"

"All you've gotta do is stand there – don't worry about it. Now, costumes…" He looked at them critically. "Your clothes are pretty okay actually, maybe try adding one of those coats on top. Preston, did you bring the coats?"

" _Yes_ , Charles, I brought the coats."

For a moment, no one moved, waiting for further instructions.

"…What are you waiting for? Go!"

They sprang into action, falling into their usual roles like pieces of a puzzle. Cary loaded film into the camera, clicking the reels into place. Joe ran an extension cord around the back of the shed and searched for the nearest plug. Martin tried on a couple of costumes. Their director walked this way and that, framing shots with his hands, muttering to himself urgently.

Alice merely rolled her eyes at Charles' bossiness and leaned against the railing. Rachel stood quietly next to her, a little confused by the bustle, and Alice gave her a slight smile. _That was me, three months ago; how quickly things change…_

"Pretty crazy, huh?" Alice said.

Rachel nodded. "I wish I could help more, but I have no idea what's happening."

"Trust me, it looks more complicated than it is. Have you done anything like this before?"

"No – I don't usually watch movies. I prefer books."

"Do you do lots of reading?"

"We move around a lot, so… yeah."

"I know the feeling. My dad used to drift around like a raft in the ocean; my mom still does, I guess."

"Haha." Rachel smiled. "Some people really enjoy that kind of life."

"Not you, though," Alice suggested.

"Sometimes. Not particularly."

She was still a complete enigma, that girl. Nice, but… cagey. Alice decided that at some point in the near future, she'd try and trap Rachel in a room and have a nice, long, one-on-one conversation with her. _It's harder to get to know some people than others, but most of the time it's worth the effort. Besides, she came along tonight, didn't she? She didn't have to say yes. Come to think of it, why did_ I _say yes, when Charles asked me?_

 _I guess… I was curious. I guess I just wanted to do something_ different.

_I wonder what her reason is._

The light glinted off the water, harsh, golden and pure. Alice shielded her eyes and turned to check on the others—

"Come on, come on, hurry! Get the camera ready!" Charles rushed past, still in panic mode. "Alice, Martin, follow me!"

* * *

"Stand here." Charles pointed to a spot at the very end of the pier. Martin dutifully stepped forwards to where he'd indicated. "Alice, you stand next to him. Now, I want you to look out over the water."

They turned, their figures silhouetted against the lake by the light of the setting sun. Cary and Joe placed the camera on its tripod a few metres behind them, pointing at their backs, and Charles peered through the lens for a second. "That's great. You're supposed to be a couple, like on a date, so try and make it look romantic."

"Charles, I can't see," Martin said glumly. "The sun's too bright."

"Close your eyes, it doesn't matter. We can only see your back anyway."

"Okay…"

Martin and Alice waited their awkwardly, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the water.

"Martin, you're meant to be in love. Put your arm around her or something," Charles said.

"Put my—" Martin twisted round. "How?"

Cary snorted. "Like this, dumbass." He hooked his hand around Joe's back, jerked him sideways and came awfully close to grabbing his butt. Joe yelped in protest.

"Hey!"

Martin glanced at Joe, then Alice, then slowly shuffled over. "Fine, fine." He put his arm around her lower back, and they leaned together slightly. Alice rested her head on Martin's shoulder, their cheeks nearly touching. Charles looked through the camera again.

"Woah, that is _mint_. Stay exactly like that."

The scene _was_ beautiful, Joe realised; Charles was right. The light danced off the water in a magical, almost ethereal way, and through the camera lens, the world was reduced to two colours: sparkling gold outlines and deep black silhouettes. Martin and Alice were a single shape at the centre of the frame, the ends of Alice's hair creating a delicate spray of shadow.

But right now, their director didn't have time for beauty. "Cut!" he shouted. "That's great. Pack everything up, we're moving."

"Where?" Alice asked, untangling herself from Martin's arm.

"To the log cabins. I wanna use that path that runs between them while it's still light. Can you guys change your costumes?"

"To what?"

"Anything. Just change it – shirt, pants, everything. The next scene's meant to be a different day."

"And where are we supposed to get changed?" Martin asked.

Charles turned on him. "God, Martin, just go behind a building or something! It's only your underwear, it's not like we're going to look!" He glanced at Alice, suddenly a little flustered. "We won't look. I promise."

"It's no big deal," Alice said. "Rachel can stand guard for me."

Then Preston came jogging up the pier, carrying a bundle of clothes; he held up a collared shirt and long pants, plus a formal-ish skirt and blouse. A tie managed to escape his fingers but he quickly snatched it up before it fell into the water. "Charles, are these okay?"

"Yeah, awesome. Let's go!"

* * *

A few minutes later, Alice and Martin emerged from behind separate buildings, dressed in their new outfits. Charles beckoned them over to where the camera was already set up: it was pointing down the paved path that led between the dozen-or-so log cabins, bounded on all sides by old, green pine trees. The sun had almost set below the hills, its light growing dimmer, apart from the few puffs of cloud above that were still streaked with gold.

Charles explained, as quickly as he could. "In this scene, you're walking down the path and talking to each other. Imagine you're coming back from a fancy restaurant – you're walking, but kinda slowly, like you don't really care where you're going, but you want to enjoy each other's company."

"You said we're talking," Alice replied. "What about?"

"Doesn't matter. We're not recording sound. As long as it looks like you're happy, it's fine." He winked. "See? I promised you there'd be no lines."

"Aaaalright, I believe you." Alice and Martin walked to the far end of the path where it curled around the cabins into the forest. Then they turned, and started walking back towards the camera. Alice stuck her elbow out and Martin slipped his arm in hers in a vague facsimile of a couple.

"So, talking about nothing…" Alice began.

"Yep," Martin replied. "Chatting chatting chatting. Still talking. Making conversation."

"That's c _learly_ not realistic," Preston said.

"Yeah – talk about school or something!" Charles suggested. "Or what did you have for dinner?"

Alice grinned, looking into Martin's eyes. "What did _I_ have for dinner? I had some sausages, and some mashed potato, and some steamed broccoli."

Martin shrugged, smiling too. "We ordered pizza. My parents couldn't be bothered cooking."

"Lucky."

"Yeah, and it was super good pizza. Wanna know what I had for dinner yesterday?"

"Well, why not? We've still got twenty yards to go."

They weaved from side to side, crossing from the left side of the path to the right while Charles followed them with the camera. The windows of the cabins were completely dark as they passed; now that the holidays were over, the campsite was much less busy. A windchime hung from one of the gutters, perfectly still. Their shadows stretched out before them.

"Favourite pizza flavour?" Alice asked.

"Definitely Meatlovers. What's yours?"

"Hawaiian all the way. My dad hates pineapple though, so we don't get it often."

"Right. Okay." Martin paused, desperately searching for a topic. "Uh… What's your favourite animal?"

"Turtles."

"Okay, now pretend to laugh!" Charles called out.

Martin contorted his face into a smile, then let out the weirdest, fakest cackle that Joe had ever heard. "Hahahahaha! Hahaha! Hahahahaha!" Luckily, the trees muffled most of it, because it sounded like he was possessed by a demon (or maybe like a witch about to boil a pot of children).

Alice snorted and covered her mouth. "What was that?" she asked, hiding a few giggles of her own.

"I don't know. I don't know. That was really bad. I'm sorry. Charles, I hate you."

"Keep walking," Charles murmured, focused on the camera. "Five, four, three, two, one— cut!"

Gratefully, they came to a stop, just outside the lens' field of view.

"That was the most romantic thing I've ever seen," Cary said.

Martin glared at him. "Shut up."

* * *

Charles' new obsession with light had sprung from an article he'd read in Filmmaker Magazine. Quality lighting was one of the most important elements of any professional-looking production, and the article had discussed several recognisable movie scenes and how lighting had influenced their mood and feel. It was valuable to have good artificial lighting, but great natural light could also have brilliant effects – so, when they'd arrived at the lake a half-hour before sunset, it was literally a golden opportunity.

And, gradually, the rest of them began to understand what Charles was trying to do. He explained – in between running around and barking out orders – that this, as usual, was about creating an emotional connection. While in _The Case_ , this had been done using only one scene, a montage could use multiple short scenes to _appear_ to show much more while still taking the same amount of time. Essentially, you were showing snapshots of a life, or a relationship, and making the audience's imagination do most of the work by filling in the in-between.

* * *

_A wordless sequence, following two people in love: they meet by chance, in an aisle at the supermarket. She's looking for a jar on the top shelf, and with his height, he's able to reach up and hand it to her. She smiles gratefully. Most moments like this are lost in time, and never blossom into anything more, but they keep running into each other at the same supermarket. They talk. He starts to look forward to their chance meetings, and on a whim, he asks her out to dinner._

_The dinner is nice. It goes well. They both agree to see each other again (a scene Charles intends to film at the local diner). Gradually, although they don't realise it, they spend more and more time together, because they make each other happy._

_They walk down a deserted twilit street, arm in arm, deep in conversation._

_The sit on a park bench beneath a streetlamp, sharing a warm drink._

_They stand on the end of a pier, watching the sunset, the only two people in the world._

_Before they know it, they've moved in together. The house is old but full of character. They paint their names on the mailbox in bright, cheerful colours. It's comfortable. Peaceful. Happy._

_He asks her to dance, and they spin around in harmony (for production value, Charles wants to record this at the school ball)._

_They sit in a car, driving to work in the rain._

_They lie on a picnic rug, surrounded by emerald, and she points at a cloud that looks like a baby boy._

* * *

An hour later, it was almost completely dark. Most of the forest was grey and shadowy – it was generally an unfriendly place at night – but the lamps next to the cabins had automatically switched on, creating islands of light around the lake. Moths swarmed against the bulbs, wings fluttering, _pitter-patter, pitter-patter_. The mosquitoes had come out in force as well and were rising from the water with seemingly insatiable bloodlust; only the generous application and stink of insect repellent kept them at arm's length.

"Alright," Charles said. "This one's going to need some explaining."

They were huddled in front of the information centre, directly beneath the streetlight that marked its entrance (if you pressed your face up against the windows, you would've seen an enormous, proud mammoth skeleton, barely distinguishable from the blackness inside). "This is the last scene, for today at least. It takes place a few minutes after the others – what happens is we get the introduction montage, then the first day of the movie, and then this happens at the end of the first day. This is what drives the whole plot, so it's important."

Despite the lateness, and the mosquitoes, Charles had their full attention. Of course he did; they were just getting to the fun part. Secretly, he'd kinda planned it that way, to go out with a bang and ensure that everyone was excited to make the rest. _I'm excited. It's going to be great. The only thing I need is one little spark to make it all work._

"The actors in this scene are Alice, Martin, Preston, Cary and… Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"You're up." Charles grinned at her. "Still glad you agreed to help out?"

"Um, definitely," she said, not sounding particularly definite. "What do I have to do?"

"Not much. It's a cinch – just walk and shoot."

* * *

Preston slithered awkwardly onto the roof of the campsite's general store, grabbing one of the tiles and using it to lever himself upward. With a short jump, he managed to swing his legs onto the roof as well, cursing as his shirt caught an edge.

"Okay, I'm up!" he called out. He turned and knelt down at the corner of the roof, peering over the edge to where Martin was waiting below him. "Pass me the light."

Martin took the spotlight and lifted it above his head. Preston grabbed the handle and pulled it up, carefully placing it on the tiles next to him. Then came the stand, a flimsy, three-legged metal contraption, and finally Martin threw him the end of an extension cord. "I think that's everything," he announced.

"Thank you." Preston began connecting things together, undoing the stand's screws so he could attach the spotlight. Charles wanted the scene to be lit from above but apparently none of the lights around the campsite were in the right spot – _so here I am, crawling around a bug-infested roof while trying to get this stupid thing to stay upright._ The roof was sloped, which made it difficult to keep the lamp level, and on top of that the power cord wasn't _quite_ long enough.

Martin watched from below, staring upwards. Preston heard him grumble about something and glanced down. "What are you whispering about?"

Martin shrugged. "Nothing."

"Stop looking up my shorts."

"Why would I? There's nothing to see."

"There's plenty to see," Preston muttered defensively. "Oooh, look, there's a dead bird up here."

"Just keep working, Wonder Woman."

_Wonder Woman? That doesn't even make sense._

Down at ground level, Cary was busy setting up the capgun. He loaded some caps and checked the hammer, while next to him Alice prepared the boom mike (really, this just meant taping a microphone onto the end of a broom handle, but it worked). She wound up the cables and plugged one end into the Super 8 camera, with the other end leading into Charles' headphones.

Without warning, Cary fired a trio of shots into the air. _BANGBANGBANG!_

Alice squeaked in shock. "Eeek! What the _hell_ , Cary!"

The sound rolled across the lake, sharp, then fading, giving a rude awakening to several flocks of sleeping birds. Cary grinned. "I just wanted to check if it still works… It totally does."

"Yeah, I heard. Ow." Alice rubbed her ears. "Next time try doing it _away_ from my face."

"Like this?" He pointed the gun at the forest and—

_BANG!_

"Cary, don't!" Charles yelled from across the clearing. "If you do that one more time I'll murder you, I swear. Preston, how's that light going?"

In a quiet corner, Joe opened his make-up box. Rachel waited next to him with her hands in her pockets. She observed curiously as he sorted through the brushes and containers and dyes, wondering how to create the effect Charles wanted. _'Tired,'_ he'd said. _'Kind of desperate_ , _like she's been awake for days. Not cartoonish, or evil, but— well, okay, maybe a little bit evil.'_ Making someone look tired was easy enough, but Charles also wanted an extra hint of menace. _Maybe I can add something to the cheekbones…_

"It seems strange for a boy to be good at doing makeup," Rachel murmured, "no offence."

"I guess it is weird. I only do cool makeup, though," he replied.

"Cool makeup?"

"Yeah. Movie makeup. That's my excuse, anyway."

 _Well, whatever makeup you do, you're probably better at it than me,_ Rachel thought. Joe looked up, glancing around the campsite. "So to do this, I need to be able to see you… How about over there?" He pointed at a well-lit spot between a couple of trees.

"Sure."

* * *

Rachel stood perfectly still as Joe reached out and dabbed some grey powder beneath her eyes. "This is to make you look tired," he explained. "Like you have… wait, what do they call it again? Like you have…"

"Like you've got bags under your eyes," she finished.

"Yeah, that's it."

She blinked at the touch of the cloth on her skin. Joe leaned back and gazed at her critically; he added a couple more small strokes, then opened his toolbox, searching for something else.

She'd been very, very close to refusing Charles's invitation on Monday. Her second thought after he'd asked her to come was to, well – have second thoughts. (Her first thought was something like ' _why are you being annoying and talking during silent reading?_ ') She hadn't known what the movie project was; she hadn't known _him_ , really. The easiest choice would've been to say no. _Sorry, I'm busy. Thanks for the invitation though._

But, despite everything, she'd said yes. It was good to get to know people, right? It would be useful to have a few friends around town. Besides, Charles and his group were the kind of people she usually _liked_ to hang out with – people who weren't particularly confident, or cool, but who were just happy doing their own thing. People who were different.

In the back of her mind, a voice whispered, _maybe this isn't such a good idea. In a year or two, you'll just move away again. Knowing them only makes it harder. And bad things sometimes happen to the people you care about…_

But, as she'd learned, it was better to live in the present that in fear. Joe found what he was looking for and unscrewed a small tin, dipping a paintbrush inside.

"Hold still," he murmured. He brushed something onto her cheeks, smooth and cold. It tickled. "Have you done any acting before?"

"No. Never." _Don't shake your head._

"It's easy, trust me. You'll definitely do better than I did."

She'd thought about telling Charles she didn't know how to act, but then she realised she'd been acting her entire life. _That has to be good practice… even if it's for a different reason._ Joe was concentrating intensely, lips moving in a silent count.

One of the many things her dad taught her was how to read people. It was part of his job, in the military, and it was a very useful skill (it also meant Rachel was pretty difficult to read herself). And the boy standing before her, smiling as he applied her makeup, was strange. Not in a bad way, but there was something about him that was hidden. He was very friendly and open on the outside, but inside, behind his eyes, there was a strength that was surprising – as if he'd changed, somehow, from someone who'd been broken into someone who'd never break. He seemed… slightly guarded, too, as if he knew more than he was letting on.

Like most things to do with people, it was hard to explain.

"Okay," Joe said. "Time to do the other side. Sorry that this is taking so long."

"No problem, take your time." Rachel turned her other cheek towards the light and went over in her head what Charles wanted her to do. _Just walk and shoot._

* * *

Martin and Alice stood by the water, facing the dark expanse of the lake. They were at the edge of a circle of light – behind them, half the campsite was illuminated from overhead by a flickering amber glow. Cary and Preston were at the rear of the scene, Cary walking, Preston sitting on a bench, acting as random bystanders.

Martin bent down and picked up a stone from the beach. With one hand, he launched it out over the water, and it skipped lightly across the surface.

"It's beautiful," Alice murmured.

"Not as beautiful as you," Martin replied softly. "I think that… I can imagine spending the rest of my life with you."

"Can you?" Alice smiled. "It's a nice feeling, isn't it. _Love_."

Charles angled the camera to point at their faces, mere inches away from getting his feet wet in the lake. Next to him, Joe held the boom mike just out of frame (and he _was_ getting his feet wet).

Martin swallowed. Slowly, he got down on one knee. "Will you marry me? I'm sorry it's like this. I'm sorry there's no ring, or flowers. It's not how I imagined it would be. But here, now… I have to ask. I have to know."

"Don't be silly, of course I'll marry you. You should've asked a long time ago." Alice grabbed his hand, pulled him to his feet. "I love you. I always have, and always will."

Martin grinned with relief. "I love you too. But first, there's something I have to tell you. Something very important. I—"

Unexpectedly, a shadowy figure appeared in the scene behind them. Instantly, Martin froze – as if he'd been touched by a ghost. He turned around.

"What's wrong?" Alice asked.

The figure entered the light. It was a girl, dressed in black. She had black hair, too, and dark eyes, and a face covered by shadows. Her left hand was in her pocket and she walked towards them with a sense of purpose, a sense of _menace_ that was in shocking contrast to their surroundings.

Calmly, she raised her hand. In it was a gun.

Suddenly, the world snapped into slow motion. (This was the tricky part – since their camera couldn't actually film in slow motion, they had to pretend to _be_ in slow motion, which felt really stupid when you were doing it). Martin's eyes widened in shock. The woman walked towards them, inescapable, inevitable, crossing the circle of light. Slowly, she came into focus. Her face was drawn, tired, curiously empty, but her jaw was clenched in determination as she looked down the barrel of her pistol. Alice looked… confused, unable to react.

Then, suddenly, Rachel caught her foot on a bump in the pavement. She stumbled forwards, attempted to keep the slow-mo walk going for another second, then gave up, her face breaking into a smile. _This is so ridiculous_.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mess it up," she said apologetically.

Charles shook his head. "No problem! It was mint up till then. Everyone, let's run it from the top—"

* * *

"Don't be silly, of course I'll marry you. You should've asked a long time ago. I love you. I always have, and always will."

"I love you too. But first, there's something I have to tell you. Something very important. I—"

The figure appeared. So did the gun. Time slowed down.

This time, though, she didn't trip. Instead, she kept walking, closer and closer, the barrel of the pistol held dead straight. She was unstoppable. Alice's mouth opened in horror. Martin started to duck, started to run and—

 _BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!_ Three quick shots to the chest.

The world sped up again, and things happened very quickly. Martin threw himself backwards, collapsing onto the shore. He pulled a hidden string in his pocket and a trio of pre-set blood capsules erupted beneath his shirt (Joe's newest special effects toy). Red bloomed. Alice gasped. Cary and Preston whirled around towards the disturbance. Rachel stood there, watching her target die, no hint of emotion on her face.

"Cut!" Charles yelled.

Alice stepped back, her shoulders slumping. "So what happens then – am I supposed to look sad? Do you want me to try and cry, like before?"

"We'll do that stuff next time," Charles replied. "You'll go and kneel down next to Martin's body – if you can cry, that's good, obviously, but being in shock is the main thing – and then Rachel will run away, and you'll run after her, and then the time travel thing will happen. Basically, it's supposed to be really unexpected the first time, like a dream almost, or a nightmare. I still have to figure out how to make the time travel stuff look cool though. Maybe I can spin the camera around, or zoom it in or something…" He trailed off, the wheels already turning in his mind.

In the middle of the circle of light, Rachel waited, still holding the gun. She gazed at it curiously, then activated the safety the way Cary had shown her. _Definitely an unusual start to a love story_ , she thought to herself. _I wonder what I've gotten myself into. Judging by what's happened so far, the answer will be pretty interesting._ She looked around at her friends – were they already her friends? She supposed so, although she'd just shot one of them – and a faint smile appeared on her lips. With all that'd happened in the past couple of years, it had been a long time since a place had felt so much like… home.

Charles glanced at his watch. "Guys, it's nearly ten, so my dad's gonna be here in twenty minutes!" he announced. "We have to do this scene one more time! Joe, is the blood ready?"

"Yep, sorted."

"Martin, what about your costume?"

"All clean."

"Cary, cap gun?"

"There's three shots left."

"Great. Everyone, back to your starting positions!" He took a deep breath as they scrambled to their stations. "And lights… camera… action!"


	26. The Forest

* * *

' _The small town of Inaba was, for many years, an unremarkable settlement in rural Japan. Known for its beef products and the local hot springs, Inaba was – for most – a rest stop on the way to other, more vital destinations. However, this changed dramatically in 1979 when video footage emerged of an encounter with a so-called 'akuma' or 'demon'. The chilling images, including some taken at a child's birthday party, were among the first to be released to the public containing indisputable evidence of alien activity. Mere months after the Lillian incident in North America that same year, Inaba became a hotbed for unexplained events. More and more sightings were reported. The town became shrouded in an unnaturally thick fog. The population were gripped by mass hysteria. The ensuing investigation was spearheaded by both the Japanese government and the journalist who originally leaked the tape: Rise Kujikawa of Tokyo…'_

**_\- An excerpt from 'First Contact: Alien Activity in the 20_ _th_ _Century', by Maria Bolleli_ **

* * *

He was standing in a forest. He didn't know why. The trees, though, were familiar; the shape of the land, the muffled sounds, the scent of pine needles in the back of his throat…

He was somewhere around Lillian. _But where?_

Joe took a few small steps forward. Nothing seemed immediately out of the ordinary. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the slightly damp, foggy air and turned around slowly, taking in his new surroundings.

The trees were tall with thin, straight trunks, stretching irregularly into the distance. They stood utterly still – statues in a living museum where no leaf dared to fall. Their branches crossed and intersected above his head, spreading twigs and leaves in wide, flat fans. Beneath them, the undergrowth was giant's carpet of moss and springy green ferns. Above, the sky vanished almost completely; only a few fragments of blue remained as pieces of an impossible puzzle. The air was rich with the smells of loam and decaying leaves. Outside it was early afternoon but here, inside the forest, everything was cool and fresh, and the colours had the gentle softness of the time just before twilight.

The merest hint of a path wound through the trees to his left. With nothing else in particular on his mind, he began to follow it.

_Why am I here?_

Something rustled in the undergrowth. A squirrel, maybe. The path led between rocks and ferns, into the fog in the distance. He stretched out a hand. Rough tree bark passed beneath his fingers.

After a couple of minutes, he found a hint of civilisation. It was a building of some kind, looming out of the foliage… not threateningly, but with the ancient, steadfast air of something that had been there for a very, very long time.

It was an old watermill. The walls were made of stone, and the roof had half-collapsed. It had to be at least a hundred years old, maybe more. The door had long rotted away, leaving behind a dark, empty portal. Ivy strangled the windows, and the remnants of a waterwheel jutted from its side. He assumed that once upon a time a river had flowed beside it, but now, the only hint of water was the dew dripping from the trees.

For some reason, he felt the need to go inside. To step into the doorway, like… like a prisoner into a cell. The ruins pulled him forwards. He needed to go inside, to look up at the hole in the roof, to follow the light down into the cellar to find it buried in the earth—

Joe woke up.

Disorientation. Sunlight. Birds chirping. His alarm clock blared at him from his bedside table – _BRAAP BRAAP BRAAP_ – and he rolled over and switched it off with one floppy arm. For a moment, he lay there, staring at the ceiling. Gradually, the forest faded, replaced by the more domestic sights of schoolbooks and models and piles of discarded clothes.

Morning sun streamed through his bedroom window. Joe twisted to look at the clock. _8:30_... _Why did I set my alarm so early? Oh, that's right, I'm supposed to go see Charles today._

Charles was one of those people with boundless energy who apparently didn't need any sleep (despite getting back from the lake late last night). And Cary, well – Cary was a freak of nature. Once during the holidays, he'd stayed up for three days straight on a sugar high and had appeared perfectly fine afterwards. Then again, it was difficult to tell if sleep-deprived Cary was any different from normal Cary.

_That was a pretty weird dream_ , Joe thought to himself. Sniffing a little, he threw back the covers and started looking for a clean set of clothes.

* * *

Saturday morning in Lillian had the kind of lively laziness you often found in smaller country towns – lots of people out and about, but in no particular hurry to be anywhere. Cars sputtered up and down the main street. The diner was filled with late breakfast guests. Kids played baseball at the local field in the first game of the Under-16's league. Light flashed off the newly-painted water tower. Slowly, the town was recovering.

Charles and Joe rode along the sidewalk, the wheels of their bikes a shining blur. As usual when Charles was obsessed with a project, everything had to be done ASAP – which included getting the film developed from last night.

"Does Donny even _do_ camera stuff anymore?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't he?"

"I figured that since his shop got destroyed when the spaceship left, he might've... given up, or whatever."

"No way! People have insurance for when that happens."

"You can't get insurance for aliens, Charles."

"But you _can_ get it for accidents. Technically, this whole thing was only an accident." Charles sighed as they skidded to a stop on the opposite side of the street, across from the still-present Olsen's Cameras. "Look, see? It's fine."

They dumped their bikes by the grocery store and half-walked, half-ran across the road. By nine-thirty it appeared that the shop was already open and Charles led the way as they ducked through the door, slinging his aging backpack in one hand (Joe was surprised it hadn't fallen apart yet; he'd had the same bag since second grade). The interior of the electronics shop remained vaguely familiar, but now it was… newer. Nicer. The shelves were wider, made of glass that had yet to be smudged by fingerprints. Downlights cast the camera and audio equipment in a flattering yellow glow. Everything had a new price tag attached and lenses glinted in the shadows. And, behind the cash register, stood Donny Olsen himself.

He'd changed.

"Woah," Charles murmured. In place of Donny's usual shoulder-length hair and scruffy beard were a neat, businesslike haircut and clean-shaven cheeks. He wore a blue collared shirt and dark pants, a name badge pinned to his pocket. For once his eyes seemed vaguely alert; the space behind the counter was definitely missing its usual smoky, odd-smelling haze.

"Hello," he said, a peculiar lilt in his voice. "Welcome to Olsen's Cameras and Hi-Fi. How can I help you today?"

Charles paused. "Uh – hey. We were hoping to get some film developed."

"Sure, I can do that. What've you got?"

"It's two reels of Super 8, plus audio." Charles walked up to the counter and opened his backpack. "How long do you think it'll take?"

"Normal service is around a week."

"Is there any chance you could do it in three days?"

"Three days? Maybe. I can't promise anything, but business has been pretty quiet at the moment." Donny took the film calmly and stuck a small label on it, then placed it on the shelf behind him. "Is there anything else you'd like?"

Joe shot Charles a ' _this is weird_ ' look. He cleared his throat. "Um… Donny?"

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to say thanks. For helping us out a couple of months ago, when that… stuff… happened. It was really cool to lend us your car. I hope nothing happened to it."

Donny frowned – and suddenly, recognition dawned in his eyes. " _Oh_! It's you dudes! I remember you, you're the bossy one! Wow, that was such a weird night."

"…Was I bossy?"

"Yeah, totally! And _you're_ the one with the hot sister."

"It's creepy how everyone keeps saying that," Charles muttered.

"You're right. I'm sorry, we shouldn't objectify women."

"Oh. OK."

Charles shrugged, unsure of how to react. There was a pause as Joe tried to convince himself that he wasn't the bossy one in their relationship."You look like you're doing well," he said eventually.

"I am. I really am," Donny said. "And it's kinda thanks to you."

"Um... really?"

"Totally! Because that night, when I was with you guys, I saw some things, ya know? Some really strange shi— stuff. A bus crash, explosions, some kind of spaceship... even a monster. Can you believe it? A monster! UFOs! So crazy."

"Yeah, crazy…"

"No waaayyy…"

"I know it sounds strange, but it seemed so _real_. And afterwards, when I realised all that stuff I was seeing wasn't there, and that my mind wasn't working as it should… it really made me re-evaluate my life. So, I changed. I decided to fix myself. I wanted to think clearly again." He sighed, a little mournfully. "I only wish I'd done it sooner."

"Wow, that's... great," Charles said, surprised.

"Yeah, awesome," Joe echoed.

"Thanks, dudes. Life is so much better now, it honestly is. Don't do drugs. You should really listen to your teachers in school."

"…so three days?"

"Sure, three days." Donny smiled. "But only 'cause you guys are cool."

* * *

"You wanna go to the 7-11?" Charles asked. They were walking up the street towards the steel mill, their reflections smiling in the wide shop windows. An infusion of sugar and/or chocolate was a good way to start a Saturday morning.

"Donny seems normaller now— more normal, I mean," Joe said.

"Definitely. It's think it's neat – everyone used to say he was weird."

"They weren't wrong. Hey, did he ever end up going out with your sister?"

"I dunno. Once, maybe. Jen never said anything about it."

A couple of birds flew low across the footpath, chirping musically to one another. For some reason, the sound reminded Joe of his dream... walking through the motionless, misty forest, surrounded by subtle hints of life.

"So last night," he began, "I had this really strange dream."

Charles was immediately anxious. "Oh, man. Don't say that."

"Why?"

"No offence, but any 'strange dreams' you start having probably mean the world's about to end. Or that another alien monster is coming to eat us."

"It's not _that_ bad!"

"I'm just saying that weird telepathic alien visions don't usually lead to happy endings, that's all." Charles sighed, wiping his forehead. "Okay, hit me. What was your dream about?"

Unlike most dreams which soon faded with the sunrise, the memory of this one was perfectly clear in his mind. "Well, it started in a forest. I was standing in a forest, but I didn't know why I was there. It looked kinda like the forests around here."

"Go on."

"The forest was really quiet for some reason, and felt really… old. Ancient. And I was following a path, and soon I came to this building. The building was old too, basically ruined. It was dark, but for some reason I wanted to step inside."

"…go on."

"It was like it was drawing me forwards, and I _knew_ that there was something buried underneath it. I don't know what it was, but I felt like I had to find it, or… dig it up, somehow."

"What did the building look like?"

"Um, nothing much. It was made of stone, the roof was collapsed… it was one of those places they use for making flour and stuff. Next to a river. A—"

"Watermill?" Charles finished. "Oh, _maaaan._ "

Joe frowned. "How did you know that?"

"Because I had the same dream, idiot! I knew this was bad news!"

"So you remember the forest too?"

"Yes, obviously! I knew it was bad, I knew it! Ugh!" Charles came to a stop, furious at the world in general. "I hate this! I don't like having this weird _stuff_ bouncing around our heads. Why us? What if it gets more serious? What if next time I'm riding a bike some alien decides to invade my brain and I run into a fence and break my neck?"

"Charles, that won't happen."

"But what if it does? It could, right? I thought we were _done_ with all this!"

Joe gripped his friend's shoulders. They were standing in front of the town dentist – Martin's dad's clinic, in fact – and beside them, the slogan on the window announced, far too happily: _'The world always looks brighter from behind a great smile'._ A giant plastic tooth model hung from the ceiling inside.

"Charles, listen to me. It's going to be fine," he said firmly. "We'll figure this out, we always do. It could just be a coincidence."

"But I— is that Martin's dad?"

Joe glanced through the window. It was Martin's dad, and – _that woman._ Joe immediately pulled Charles out of sight a few metres back along the path.

"Hey, what was that for?"

"Just wait there." Joe crept forwards and, slowly, peered around the edge of the window.

Inside the dentist's office, it was dark. The sign on the door was flipped to 'closed'. The waiting room couches were empty. But there behind the receptionist's desk was Victor Haverford, wearing the usual grey suit, and he... _he's_ _hugging_ _that woman we met at Martin's house the other day._ _What was her name? Carol?_

It was a very long, friendly hug.

"Who's that?" Charles whispered, quietly creeping up behind him. "Did Mrs. Haverford get a makeover?"

"No. That's not Mrs. Haverford."

"Oh. Then..."

Joe watched, staying very still. The pair's arms were wrapped around each other, his fingers running through her long blonde hair, hers stroking his shoulder. He leant close and whispered something in her ear and she laughed, beaming happily.

Then Carol stepped back, picking up her handbag from the counter. She waved daintily, blew a kiss. Victor waved back. She turned, and with one last, long look, started walking towards the door, still smiling—

Joe ducked out of the way. "We have to get out of here," he muttered. "Come on."

"But the 7-11's that way!"

"Just walk. She might recognise me."

"You _know_ her?"

"Yeah, I met her at Martin's place. She's his dad's school friend, or something."

"Then what was she… man, this is super weird."

"Tell me about it." Joe kept up the pace, walking quickly. _Don't run, that'll be even more suspicious_. _But if they were hugging like that, it's bad, right?_ _I mean, if_ I _hugged another girl like that and Alice saw me, that wouldn't be cool at all._ "Okay, so— crap."

"What?"

"Todd's there."

"That guy who wants to kill you?"

"Not a great description, Charles!"

Todd was, indeed, there. He was at this exact moment walking past the entrance to Olsen's Cameras, heading directly towards them. He was flanked by three of his friends who were similarly tall and impressively muscled – one raggedy kid wasn't even wearing a shirt, which was generally considered pretty badass if you could pull it off in ninth grade.

"We should cross to the other side," Joe mumbled.

"No, don't! He'll follow you and it'll only make it worse. What's the worst he could do, anyway?"

"I _really_ don't want to find out."

"Fine. Then we can turn around and walk the other way."

"But then we'll run into that lady!"

Charles groaned. "For someone who's so nice, you sure have a lot of enemies."

"…Thanks?"

Twenty yards up the street, Todd finally noticed them. His eyes narrowed. He tapped one of his posse on the shoulder.

"Crap," Joe whispered.

"Just walk past them," Charles replied, "nothing's gonna happen. Remember when I was bullied?"

"Sure – in _second grade_."

"It still counts. And the best thing to do is to not pay them any attention. People don't go around beating each other up on the main street, no matter _how_ much they hate you. "

_Well, I guess I can't think of anything better to do._ Joe swallowed and stared straight ahead, focusing on a point in the distance somewhere past the group of oncoming teens. _But this isn't like school, though! There aren't any teachers around to keep everyone in line!_ He could feel Todd's eyes boring into him, closer and closer, could see the ugly smirk on his lips, framed by that slick blonde hair. Somewhat more comfortingly he could feel Charles beside him too, a large, stripy-shirted presence.

The distance between them shrank with every step; the air was strangely thick with tension, like a duel in an old Western. At least Joe's fight-or-flight instincts were working well (currently urging him to run the hell away).

"Hey Todd, how's it going?" Charles asked brightly.

"Alright, Charles," he replied darkly.

Closer, closer. His heightened senses made it very difficult to stay calm, and for some reason, it was almost scarier than facing down an angry alien. _It's because I know how this goes_ , Joe realised desperately. _I've seen it before. I've seen it happen._ It was like he was walking towards a brick wall. For a terrible moment he thought they'd be stopped or that he _would_ have to run – but at the last moment the group parted to let him and Charles through. Relief flooded him. The gap was small and he brushed shoulders with one them, doing his best to ignore that venomous glare and the faint stink of deodorant.

Todd danced sideways as they passed and slammed his elbow into Joe's ribs.

"Ow!" Joe coughed and stumbled onto the curb but stopped himself from looking back. He heard the group snicker loudly to themselves.

_"Haha, good one!"_

_"Shoulda tripped him."_

"You okay?" Charles murmured.

"Ugh – yeah. Are they leaving?"

Charles glanced over his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, they're miles away. Well, technically yards, but you know what I mean."

"Ow." Joe rubbed his chest, winded. "Could've been worse, I guess."

"Definitely."

It hurt – a sharp, piercing pain that would probably leave a nice bruise. However, it wasn't too long before he could breathe properly again. Joe stole a peek over his shoulder a saw the group round a corner, chuckling and bouncing a ball between them. "So what was that 'Hey Todd' thing about?"

"Just because _you're_ enemies with him doesn't mean I have to be. Besides, being friendly defuses the whole situation. It's basic manipulation." Charles looked rather proud of himself. "Now, about that dream…"

* * *

Rise Kujikawa sat in her office, spinning idly in her chair. It wasn't a big office by most standards: four metres by three, plastered walls, a wooden floor scratched by years of use. Her desk was piled high with files and reams of paper, and several empty cups still bearing the dried remnants of green tea. In the corner were a small TV and a tape player, and shafts of dusty sunlight fell across the screen from the wide, cement-spattered window. (They'd been doing some construction work on the floors above, and of course hadn't bothered to clean up the mess.) Through the window was a view of the Akihabara district of Tokyo: a snaking, grid-like mess of apartment buildings and malls, topped by a forest of TV antennas and light-up billboards.

The chair always helped her think. She'd asked for a new one in the last office survey, and against all odds they'd given it to her. Rise closed her eyes, feet brushing the floor, and took a long, relaxing breath.

The world spun.

When she stopped and opened her eyes again, she was facing the wall; she did a little half-turn back to her desk. The peace lily on the corner was looking a little dry and she made a mental note to water it. Yosuke would be _terribly_ disappointed if she managed to kill his birthday present in the first week.

Now, where was it? Soon she found the sheet of paper that she was looking for, hiding under a dozen others – _'Intra-Border Military Movements in the United States, June 1979'_ – and scanned the contents quickly. There was solid evidence there. Very solid. Certainly enough to support a further investigation. Something very strange was happening, all across the world it seemed, and even if the rest of them didn't trust her instincts, _she_ had to. They'd see.

Rise found another slip of paper, this one with a list of numbers on it. Slowly, she picked up her phone, and dialled the third on the list.

It was an international call. Expensive, probably, but she'd deal with that later.

_Ring ring… ring ring… ring ring…_

No one picked up for an uncomfortably long time, before a sudden click at the other end. Then a voice. American. " _Hello_ ," it said, _"You've reached the Lillian sheriff's office. This is Jack Lamb speaking."_

"Good morning, Mr. Lamb. My name is Rise Kujikawa. I am a journalist from the Aera magazine in Japan. How are you?"

" _What? Did you say 'Japan?'"_ There was an audible delay before he answered, as Rise imagined their voices travelling half-way around the world. _"What are you calling for, Miss Kuji— Kujikawa?"_

"I wanted to ask you some questions about the events that happened in your town during the summer."

" _Oh, hell. Give me a second."_ There was a sort of scratching noise, then the _snap_ of a door closing. _"Okay, that's better. First of all… are you really from Japan?"_

"Hai, watashi wa Nihon kara no yobidashite imasu. That means 'Yes, I am calling from Japan."

" _Wow. I guess that's affirmative. Then forgive me for asking, but what the heck are you callin'_ me _for?"_

Rise smiled. "Well, Mr. Lamb, I need an impartial perspective on what happened in your town. Your phone number was relatively easy to find, and I am hoping that as an honest policeman interested in the protection of your citizens, you will not mind sharing… certain information."

" _I see. And what would this 'certain information' be?"_

"I'm not really sure yet."

" _Well, Miss Kujikawa, that's very helpful."_

"I was hoping to find out. From you."

There was another pause. " _…Alright, Ree-say – am I saying that right?"_

"Yes."

" _Good. Now, Rise, I can't deny that your call's been very interesting, and it's really spruced up my day, but I'm not sure how much I can tell you. I don't know the facts of what's been going on around here. I've only got rumours, and gossip, and anything I've seen with my own two eyes – which isn't much, all things considered."_

"I hope, Mr. Lamb, that it will be enough," she said slowly. "And it's not only what you've seen so far – it's what you're _going_ to see in the future…"

* * *

In what was an unusually busy day for Lillian's phone lines, at the same time a much more local call was bouncing across the neighbourhood.

"Cary!" Charles hissed. "I need to talk to you."

_"Sure man. Why are you whispering?"_

"I – I don't know." He moved the receiver to his left hand and unwrapped a 7-11 Snickers bar with other. He was sitting in the corner of the living room while his two younger siblings watched TV on the lounge and Peggy did homework in the kitchen. "Did you have a weird dream last night?"

_"I always have weird dreams, Charles. Usually about your sister."_

"That's the worst thing I've ever heard. Never say that again."

" _At least it wasn't about your mom."_

_"_ Dude!"

_"…Or you."_

"Argh! Shut up!"

_"Alright, fine, keep your pants on. What did you want to tell me again?"_

"I was ASKING, Cary, if you had a weird dream last night."

" _Sure, I had_ a _dream. I don't think it was super weird, but I can tell you about it if you want."_

"Thanks." Charles rolled his eyes. "That's all I needed to hear. How did it start?"

* * *

"I was in the woods or something," Cary said. He was sitting at the dining table, a bowl of cereal in front of him; every couple of seconds he crunched through another mouthful, which created a very lovely sound on the other end of the phone.

" _Yeah, so was I,"_ Martin replied. _"What is that noise you're making? It's gross."_

"I'm eating cereal."

_"WHY? It's lunchtime!"_

"I woke up, like, an hour ago."

_"WHY?"_

"I was tired, so I slept in. I'm still in my pyjamas. It's great."

_"Ugh. You're terrible."_

"Am not. Come on, Smartin, keep talking about your dream."

_"Okay. So I was a forest, the same as you. It was foggy. I walked for a few minutes, and then I found a house. It was old, like, really old. Like something in a fairytale."_

"Was it definitely a house? What about another type of building."

_"I don't know. I guess it did have that waterwheel beside it? Anyway, I wanted to go inside, even though it was dark. And creepy. For some reason, I knew there was something buried underneath it… I don't know what, though. And then I woke up."_

Despite the bright sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows, Cary felt a shiver run down his spine. "Well, Smartin, I'm about to blow your mind. Because—"

* * *

"—guess what? Everyone had the same dream!" Martin said.

There was a distinct pause while Preston contemplated this possibility. _"…You can't be serious."_

"Dead serious."

_"That is completely and utterly ridiculous."_

"I know, but that doesn't change that it happened."

" _All six of us?"_

"Yeah." Martin spun in the hallway to find his sister staring at him, a strange expression on her face. "Um – hold please." He took the receiver from his ear and stood there innocently.

"That is a _really_ weird conversation that you're having there," Abigail said. She'd just returned from her baseball game, still wearing her sweat-crinkled uniform.

"We were only… you know how Charles is always obsessed with movies? We're brainstorming ideas for next one."

"Huh. Okay. Have fun, I guess. Weirdo." She trudged off down the hallway, dragging her bag behind her. When she'd disappeared around the corner Martin picked up the phone again.

"Okay, she's gone. Sorry."

_"Who was that?"_

"My sister. Crisis averted."

" _Ah. But you're SURE everyone had this same dream?"_

"Yeah. Me, you, Charles, Joe, Cary, and we've still gotta call Alice, but… yeah."

" _Hmmm. Then I've got one huge, gigantic, enormous question."_

* * *

"Why?" Preston asked. "What the heck does it mean?"

" _I don't know,"_ Joe said. " _What do you think?"_

"No idea. Why are you asking me? You're the one who got to see that alien's memories."

" _Yes, but I don't know if this is connected, and YOU'RE supposed to be the smart one— wait a second."_

There was silence on the other end of the line. Preston tapped his foot idly as he waited for Joe to return. He was lying on the floor of the living room, staring at the ceiling; sitting normally was much more boring.

_"Sorry, I'm back. I had to let Lucy out before she made a mess."_

"No problem. But how do you know this isn't connected to the alien? It seems like the kind of thing it would do."

" _I didn't say it wasn't connected, I said I didn't know if it WAS_. _If it is related to what happened here, it's pretty different to anything we've seen before._ "

"The dream _was_ very ordinary," Preston agreed. "Completely unlike that vision we had a couple weeks ago. That was much more sinister."

_"Yeah. Honestly, I have no idea what this means. Sorry."_

"Don't apologise, none of us have any ideas either." He thought for a moment, analysing possibilities. "So, if we can't work out _why_ this happened, then the next big question is…"

* * *

" _What do we do now?"_ Joe asked.

"That is a fantastic question which I do not have an answer to," Alice replied.

_"Yeah. That's basically what I said."_

Alice twirled the phone's cord around her fingers, staring thoughtfully out the window. The weeds in the garden were starting to outnumber the flowers; she'd have to do something about that. Dad would probably help, and it wouldn't be a big job between the two of them. "Have the others got any suggestions?"

_"No, not really. Everyone just thinks it's weird."_

"Well, it is. It's super weird."

_"Yeah. But if we start by assuming that we had this dream for a reason…"_

"And that it's not a hallucination, or insanity, or psychological trauma."

" _And that it's not all of those things… then what possible reasons are there?"_

"Personally, if we're going along with this, I'd say that the dream's purpose was to show us something. That's what dreams do, right? They show you a scene."

" _Exactly! Everyone ended up at that watermill, so maybe something wants to lead us there."_

Alice felt the phrase echo in her mind: _something wants to lead us there._ It raised more questions than answers. "Everyone wanted to go inside. To go and dig something up."

" _Yes."_

She waited for Joe to add something else, but he didn't. "So," she said quietly. "That's the answer, then."

* * *

" _We have to find the place in the dream,"_ Alice said.

"What do you mean, 'the place in the dream'?" Charles said incredulously. "It's a dream! There's no 'place.'"

_"I think there is. Everyone feels that the forest we saw looks like the woods around Lillian. What if the dream IS trying to lead us to a ruined watermill? There might be a place around here that fits the description. It's worth investigating, anyway."_

"So, what you're saying is… we're literally going to go out and follow our dreams."

_"Haha, when you put it like that—"_

Suddenly, his sister called out from the kitchen. "Charles, are you done yet? I need to call someone, you've been hogging the phone for ages!"

"One second! Alice, I just had a fantastic idea."

_"Really?"_

"Yeah. If that old mill really is around here, and if we can somehow find out where it is, then I've got an excuse to get us there."

Alice snorted. _"Don't tell me: you're filming a movie."_

"Yeah, and it's awesome," Charles said defensively. "We do need to film a scene in the forest at some point, so if – IF – we can track down this building, then I don't see why we can't have a look for… whatever it is, at the same time."

_"Thanks, Charles. That sounds good. We're gonna look pretty stupid if there's nothing buried there, though."_

He shrugged. "Who cares? We've come this far. Stupid or not, it'll be totally insane if we do actually find something."

* * *

"Charles, I didn't know I was coming to your house to help you do chores," Preston grumbled.

"I didn't know there were gonna _be_ chores. But mom says it's my turn to clean the yard, and she's going to ground me if I don't do it, and if she grounds me then we can't go film the movie, and if we can't film then we can't look for our stupid dream house, and if we can't do that then the world might end—"

"Okay! I get it! I'll help you clean your stupid garden." Preston glanced at Joe with a fantastically sulky expression.

Joe shrugged. "I've seen worse."

Charles' house sat on the corner of Crystal Lane and Fernwood Avenue, with the backyard sloping gently down towards the road. (Fernwood Avenue ran along the eastern side with Joe's house a couple doors down.) The yard was mostly grass, dotted with patches of sawdust for the flowers, and finely-trimmed trees and bushes skirted the rear of the house. His dad had recently clipped the hedge along the back fence and apparently it was Charles' job to collect the fallen branches. One by one they gathered armfuls of leaves and twigs, carrying them to a trailer in the corner.

Charles grunted as a branch tried to poke him in the nostrils. "Okay, so here's the deal: tomorrow afternoon – Sunday – we can do some more filming as cover. I'll have more of the script ready by then. The only thing we have to worry about is finding the right place."

"Easier said than done," Preston sighed. "There's not a lot to go on."

"Yeah, I know it's a rush, but it's hard to do anything during the week when school's in. We have to try to finish things on the weekends."  
"And _I_ thought weekends were supposed to be relaxing. Joe, watch out. There's a wasp on your shoulder."

"What? AAH!" Joe dropped the branch he was carrying and hastily brushed the insect away. It buzzed by his head and he dodged sideways before it spiralled over the fence. "Thanks. Have we got any clues on how to find… whatever it is we're looking for?"

"No. Nothing," Preston replied. "I was planning to check the library though."

"Maybe it'd be on a map? Like, for walking trails?" Charles suggested.

"It's a possibility. Again, the problem is that 'old watermill' is awfully unspecific. There _might_ be a list of historical buildings we can check, but who knows if it's significant enough to be on there. And it's a pretty big leap of faith to assume it's near Lillian in the first place."

Joe dumped an armful of branches on the pile, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Not necessarily. In the dream, I know I recognised the forest – it was definitely from around here. I don't know how, or why, but that's how it felt."

"Ugh. Feelings." Preston rolled his eyes. " _That's_ what I hate about this. I mean, dreams are a very inefficient method of communication! It relies on interpretation, for one thing, and if _I_ was an advanced alien species I certainly wouldn't use dreams to send important messages. Why can't we get a – a letter about it, or a phone call! That'd be much better."

"That's stupid. Aliens wouldn't write letters to us," Charles retorted.

"I don't see why not."

"It's not like it's sitting behind you in math class. It can't exactly pass you a note." He bent down to pick up some more leaves.

"Charles," Joe whispered.

"What?"

"Butt-crack alert."

"Oh. Thanks." He reached behind him and pulled up his jeans. "Actually, I just remembered – Preston, why was Cindy Sanders passing you those notes on Friday afternoon?"

"She needed help with a homework question."

"There were a lot of notes."

"She had a lot of questions," Preston said calmly. "Ask Martin about it if you want, he was sitting next to her."

Involuntarily, Charles' face twitched. He opened his mouth to say something, then fell silent.

"…What's with you?"

Joe and Charles exchanged a glance. Joe stared at the grass for a moment, thinking quickly. _We should tell him. That's why we invited him over. Preston can help, he'll know how to react._ "Okay," he began. "We have a secret, but you can't tell _anyone_. You swear?"

Preston shrugged. "OK."

"No, really," Charles said. "You can't."

"I said 'okay.'"

"Alright." Joe looked around to make sure there weren't any Kaznyk siblings within earshot. He continued, a little quieter. "This morning, we went into town to get the film developed from last night, and we saw Martin's dad at the dentist's."

"So? He's the dentist. That's where he works."

" _So_ , he was with another woman. The same one we met at Martin's house last Tuesday. She said she was an old friend from high school."

"Yeah, I remember."

"But it looked… _weird_. He was hugging her."

"Well, there's a lot of different kinds of hugging," Preston said, frowning. "I mean – was he patting her on the back while he did it, like guys do?"

"I don't know. It was a hug."

"Show me. Do it to me."

Now it was Joe's turn to be surprised. "I'm not gonna _hug_ you!"

"Why?" Preston folded his arms. "I'm quite secure in my manliness—"

Charles coughed.

"—and it's okay to hug your friends, Joe. Come on."

"Ugh. Fine." Joe looked up, then down, then resigned himself to his fate. He stepped forwards and quickly wrapped his arms around Preston's torso, head half-resting on his shoulder, kinda touching, doing his best awkward imitation of what they'd seen inside the clinic. One second passed, then two, then three.

"Alright, get off me. I get it, I get it."

"Okay!" Joe raised his hands. "See? Charles, back me up here."

"It looked pretty serious," Charles agreed worriedly. "More than a 'friend' hug."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yeah."

Preston took a deep breath, then exhaled. "Darn. I _knew_ there was something strange about her… Have you told Martin?"

"No, and we're not going to," Joe said.

Charles shook his head. "No, we have to tell him."

"But he'll freak!"

"I know, but there aren't any secrets between us – that's our code, remember?"

"Easy for you to say. You don't have any secrets."

Charles stared at him. "Remember that time in science class when I tried to sneak out a fart but it came out a – a poop? And then I had to flush my undies down the toilet? Do you think I _wanted_ to tell you guys that? It was the worst day of my life!"

"Charles, it's not the same thing," Joe insisted.

"It _is_. It's exactly the same thing."

"We're NOT telling him."

"Guys, whether we decide to tell him, or not, maybe we should get more evidence first," Preston interrupted. "Or talk to someone else."

"Who?" Charles asked.

"What about Alice? Her mom left a few years ago, right? Was it because of… something similar?..."

"No, I don't think so," Joe said quietly. "We haven't really talked about it, but her mom left for another reason. Her dad – Mr. Dainard – was drinking a lot, I think."

"Ah."

Right at that moment, as they stood around the yard, life seemed awfully complicated. It wasn't just what'd happened to Alice, or Joe, or even what was currently happening to Martin; the world simply felt like a tangled, uncomfortable mess, as if they were trapped in an invisible maze. Dreams, school, movies, the military… it was hard to tell which direction was the right one. _The only thing we can do is keep going forwards, follow everyone else and hope that we figure it out._

_But what if Dr. Haverford_ is _having an affair? What happens then? Nothing good, right? He always sounded like such a nice person – funny, talkative, confident – basically Martin's polar opposite. The last time I went to the dentist he actually made it fun. And Martin likes him. Martin thinks he's cool. It'll be really, really bad if this turns out to be true._

… _as if we needed another thing to worry about._

"Come on," Charles said. "There's only a few branches left."

Silently, they trudged across the yard, lost in their own thoughts and the soft rustle of greenery.

* * *

Rachel aimed down the sights of her pistol at the target at the far end of the lane. The small black weapon was cold as she held it out in front of her, hands clasped, arms straight, feet slightly apart in the way she'd been taught. It wasn't difficult to imagine how deadly it was. Her hair was tied back beneath a pair of ear protectors; it was cool inside the range so she wore jeans and a pale pink jumper.

_Exhale. Focus._ The hanging target was thirty feet away. She lined up the shot, pulled the trigger.

_Bang bang bang! Bang!_  
The muffled recoil kicked up her arms: one miss, three hits clustered round the paper target's chest. Rachel felt a puff of satisfaction _._ She flicked the pistol's safety and took off her earmuffs, putting the weapon on the shelf next to her.

"Good shot," her dad murmured appreciatively.

"Really? Thanks."

"You hit the target three times out of four – that's 75% accuracy. In most cases you'll only need to hit it once."

Ryotaro Yukimura (known to most of his American friends as 'Ryan') made a slender but well-built figure, one of those people who appeared taller than reality. He was in his early forties but didn't really look it thanks to a youthful Japanese complexion, and had a head of feathery dark hair and gray-ish eyes. His jawline was nearly sharp enough to cut diamond, currently covered in a fine layer of stubble, and he wore casual black pants and a grey button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up half way.

He was certainly the best-dressed person at the shooting range, with the other half-dozen visitors wearing various combinations of shirts, shorts and jeans. The range was indoors and had been converted from an old warehouse – high ceilings, bright lighting, newly-reinforced concrete walls – and was split into eight individual rows, each containing a rail for the hanging targets and various spots for weapons and ammunition.

"Remember how to reload?" Ryan asked.

"Yes, I think so." Rachel took the gun and aimed it downward. She pressed the magazine release and the empty clip fell into waiting fingers. _Get a new clip, turn it the right way…_ it wasn't too difficult to remember the steps once you'd done it a few times. In the row next to them a quick sequence of shots rang out – a burst of five or six.

"When did you get back last night?"

She thought for a moment. "...Just after eleven. You were already asleep."  
"Yes, probably. Long day yesterday." Her dad chuckled. "You going to tell me about your new friends?"

"If you want. What would you like to know?"

"Who they are, for a start! Don't get me wrong, I think it's great, already getting invited to places in your first week – that doesn't happen often. I'm proud of you."

"It's nothing to do with me, it's them. They're… nice." She finished reloading and aimed down the range before laying the pistol back on the shelf. "You ready?"

"Hit me."

"Okay: there's Charles, Joe, Alice, Preston, Martin and Cary."

"Charles, Joe, Alice, Preston, Martin, Cary," her dad recited. He gave her a sideways glance. "Lots of boys."

"...So?"  
"Only making an observation. And you went out to make a movie?"

"Yeah. They write the scripts, act them out, do the editing, then enter them in competitions. It was fun; weird, but fun. I think they've been hanging out for a while, they're pretty close to each other."

"How did you meet them?"

"Luck. I started sitting with them during lunch."

"M-hm. Wait. Charles, Joe, Alice—" He muttered something under his breath. "Where have I heard those names before? Joseph… Lamb? Is that his family name?"

"I think so. Why?"

"I swear I've seen that set of names somewhere. In one of the reports, perhaps…" Her dad trailed off suddenly. He tended to do that a lot when he had something on his mind.

_Huh. That group seemed super normal. Not the kind of people who'd show up in CIA reports. Maybe they were interviewed for something, or their parents were. The army probably interviewed lots of people. And, speaking of:_

"How's the work so far?" she asked.

"It's definitely interesting," Ryan said. "They trust me, which is good. I've been shown around a lot already. On my previous assignments, it sometimes took some time to get that trust."

"Even as part of the CIA?"

" _Especially_ as part of the CIA. They take one look at my suit and clam right up. I'm still not sure what I'm exactly supposed to be _doing_ here, other than being an outside perspective on what happened; unfortunately, a few mistakes were made and I've heard a lot went wrong, so I suspect it'll involve a great deal of paperwork."

"Sounds fun."

"Very. That's the negative side being a spy: it's mostly paperwork."

Rachel grinned; she'd heard that complaint before. "But something did happen?"

"Oh, yes. I'm going to have my hands full. There was—" He stopped. "I'd better not say anything. Your mother would kill me if I start telling you about work again. Classified information, you know."

"I know."

"I can't say anything _yet_ , anyway. Not before I know the whole story. It's definitely related to what we've seen before, although it's so much more _recent_ , and that's what makes it fascinating."  
"That's good, I suppose."

Ryan smiled faintly. "I realise I'm being vague. The important thing is that the incident only happened a few months ago, and that means some issues remain which haven't been completely cleared. _That_ means I want you to be careful. And prepared."

He said it often enough to be an unofficial motto: dad wanted her to be prepared, always. That was why they did the shooting practice, and the camping trips, and the extra out-of-school lessons. _Be prepared._ It was good advice.

With a jerk, Ryan picked up his own pistol and swiftly brought it to bear. He barely appeared to aim before squeezing the trigger. _Bang bang! Bang!_ Two shots to the chest, one to the head – a neat, deadly triangle. _Bang, bang!_ Two more bullets in each thigh of the paper target. Often, it was better to simply disable your enemy. _Reload._ The air smelled of cordite.

"Your friends…" he began.

"Yes?"

"I want you to keep an eye on them."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said. Watch them. Listen. Use your judgement. Young people can have interesting perspectives on things, interesting knowledge. And if they start getting involved in anything different, anything strange… tell me. Please."

Rachel frowned imperceptibly. "You want me to do your job for you," she said evenly.

"That's not—"

"You want me to spy on them."

"No! It's not spying."

"Then what is it?"

Ryan exhaled, turning towards her, and his eyes were laced with pain. "Listen. When I took you and your brother away from Japan, it was because I wanted to keep you safe. That's all your mother and I have ever wanted. That's all we _will_ want. But we can't do everything, so part of that deal is that you have to tell me things. If you see something, you have to tell me. That's it. I'm part of the government now. I can help."

Rachel looked down. _It's not spying_ , she could imagine him saying. _It's being prepared._

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was for the best.

Small betrayals, for the greater good.

"Do you miss him?" her dad asked suddenly.

"Yes. Of course I do."She said it with no emotion, but already she could feel the slight sting of tears forming in her eyes – just a hint. _What kind of question is that?_ Rachel wiped them away frustratedly, pretending to fix her hair in the process. She aimed down the range at another pair of distant targets. When they were this far from her, it was easier to imagine the figures as real people. Not that she'd ever actually shoot someone, obviously, but something about those white silhouettes came to life before her eyes.

Maybe one of them was her brother. She remembered his kind, rounded face, his permanent goofy smile, his mop of thick, wavy hair. _It's all so far away now._ She remembered being with him, and remembered being responsible for something – floating, red, the rising high-pitched whine – so far away it seemed like a dream. Maybe one of them was simply another innocent victim.

"What's wrong?" her father asked.

"Nothing." She shook her head. _Exhale. Focus._ Ready, aim—

_Bang!_

* * *

The cemetery was empty at this time of night. Of course, it was usually empty during the day, too – _luckily there isn't much need for it in a small town like ours_. The familiar rolling hillside met with the trees all around, bisected by gravel paths. The grass was neatly trimmed between the hundreds of headstones, some old and weathered, their inscriptions faded, while others were smooth and new, the granite reflecting his flashlight. On top of the hills on the far side the water tower rose against the stars, with a couple of houses peeking amidst the trees.

Jack Lamb walked among the tombstones, his slow, casual stride betraying no hint of nervousness. He wasn't doing anything special; merely out for an evening stroll. _I've got more reasons to be here than most._ He swept his flashlight over the grass, and it sparkled off the dewdrops...

_"I would like you to check something for me, please," the journalist said. She spoke good English, suppressing her accent well._

_"Check what?" Jack replied._

_"I have in front of me a record of military movements around your town. After June 6_ _th_ _, they appeared to be concentrated around two areas: Aspen Avenue, Pruitt Road and Hillside Road."_

_"That makes sense. Aspen Avenue is the main street, that's where most of the damage occurred. Pruitt Road's where the school is, which is where they operated for a short while. Hillside Road, though… that runs past the cemetery."_

_"The cemetery. Can you think of a reason why the military would be there?"_

_Jack racked his brains. "No. Not really."_

...It would've been much more helpful if Rise had actually mentioned something to look for, but it sounded like she was as much in the dark as he was. _As usual, it's a goddamn mystery. Nothing's ever easy, is it._ Nevertheless, every time he'd driven down Hillside recently, he did recall seeing a few dark green tents and vehicles, which raised the question of _why_ : why would the military still be hanging around a graveyard, months after they'd moved on from everywhere else? _Why would a random woman from Japan be asking_ me _about it?_

He kept walking, boots rustling on the grass. The graves stretched forth in long parallel rows. He didn't know how many there were – hundreds, definitely. Thousands? The sky above was clear, stars twinkling brightly, and the overnight glow of steel mill was a hint of orange on the eastern horizon.

Suddenly, he noticed a light in the distance. It looked like torches; a cluster of 'em, moving and bobbing by the groundskeeper's shed where most of the tents were arranged. There was a spotlight there as well throwing white across the hillside...

_"Can you find out for me?" Rise asked._

_"Uhhh… I guess so. I mean, I can't do much, but I can go and poke around a little."_

_"Thank you very much. That is more than enough."_

_"I certainly hope so. From my experience, the army doesn't take too kindly to having law enforcement interfering in their affairs."_

_"It's the same in my country. Please, do not do anything rash – be as safe as you need to."_

_Jack chuckled mirthlessly, gathering his thoughts. This conversation was giving his policeman's intuition a real workout. "Ma'am, you still haven't told me_ why _you're asking me this. Why do you care about what happens in Lillian?"_

_"It's because I'm a journalist," Rise replied firmly. "I care about stories. And the story of Lillian may turn out to be the most important story in the world."_

...Slowly, Jack came to a stop; one he had to make. Before him, about half-way down the row, stood a simple, dark headstone. It was engraved with _'Elizabeth Lamb'._

_May 26, 1942 to February 3, 1979. Still seems hard to believe._

It was odd, but coming here wasn't so bad anymore. It was almost an academic exercise. Stepping into his bedroom every night and going to sleep in an empty bed – now _that_ was far more confronting. The house held memories, constant reminders. This… this was simply a resting place. There were still some wilting flowers on the ground from when he'd last come with Joe. He bent down, arranging them a little more neatly. _Beloved Wife and Mother._

He looked up again.

The lights were still there. He could even see people. There were a couple of guards standing by the entrance to the shed, and at least another three walking back and forth between the tents. A temporary fence had been erected around the area, but from this distance it was hard to make out any interesting details. _A few crates, some jeeps, a generator for the lights…_

Jack switched off his flashlight and started making his way towards them.

_"So you really don't know what you're looking for?" Jack asked._

_"Well… not exactly." Her voice was distant. "Do you think the soil around the cemetery would be easy to dig?"_

_"That's a strange question."_

_"Yes."_

_"…I guess it would be. Most of the ground around the town is quite soft. Why?"_

_"We had a similar incident in Japan, very recently. Similar to what happened to you. One of the only pieces of information I have managed to find is that several large tunnels were discovered in the nearby area."_

_"What do you mean, 'tunnels'."_

_"Like a – what is the word? Like what a rabbit makes. Lots of tunnels, underground, all connected. Much bigger than a rabbit, though. Much bigger. Maybe some of these tunnels are around your cemetery. This is something I'd like to know."_

_"How much bigger are we talking here?—"_

_"I'm sorry, Mr. Lamb, I have to go now. Thank you very much for your help. I will call you on Monday. Good luck..."_

Jack shook his head. It was an odd place to end a phone call, that was for sure. The bigger question, maybe, was why he was currently traipsing through a graveyard at nine-pee-em on the word of some Japanese reporter. _I always was too damn helpful._

But no one appeared to have noticed him so far. The army had indeed set up a fine little complex at the edge of the grass, complete with barriers and canvas pavilions and conspicuously armed guards. The groundskeeper's shed was the centre of the proceedings, and its main doors had been removed and replaced with some kind of zip-up plastic sheeting. One of the trucks parked on the road behind it was still running, engine coughing in the night.

It wasn't a particularly _big_ operation, but it wasn't unnoticeable either. _Interesting that it's still so active, given how long it's been since..._ Jack walked closer. Surely the army wouldn't be too aggressive; someone would have plenty of legitimate reasons to be curious.

When he reached the fence, however, _that_ was apparently too close. One of the guards detached himself from a tent and quickly ran over to intercept him.

"Hey! Stop right there!"

He stopped. _No use gettin' shot, is there._

The guard stood on the other side of the fence, his cautious eyes taking in every detail of his appearance. "What are you doing here?" he barked.

Jack pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Visiting someone."

"That's fine, but please step away from the fence. This is a restricted area under the jurisdiction of the U.S. military."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Am I allowed to ask what you're doing here?"

"No."

The guard stood firm. Behind him, the doors to the maintenance shed swung open; there was a distinct hiss of escaping air as a figure in a white lab-coat emerged. The figure blinked in the glare of the spotlights, shielding their eyes, before walking to one of the smaller tents. As the doors swung shut again Jack went up on his tip-toes, peering through the gap. There _were_ stairs inside the shed. He could barely make out some railings, and perhaps a hint of a deep, round shadow that could a hole in the earth—

"Sir, if I could ask you to move away?"

"Of course." He stepped back, giving the guard a slight nod. "Have a good night."

Jack walked off along the side of the cemetery. He could feel the man's eyes boring into his back, making sure he didn't try anything funny. A couple of minutes later he was out of sight, leaving the strange lights and the soldiers behind.

_Well_ , he thought. _That's interesting._

* * *

"Found anything yet?" Preston asked.

"No." Alice scowled. "This map isn't very helpful though."

The unhelpful map, when unhelpfully unfolded, covered nearly half the table. It was a very detailed representation of Lillian and the surrounding area: _'Council Survey of Lillian Township, April 1975'._ The town was a mess of squiggles at the very centre, each street painstakingly labelled, but the full extent of the chart covered a region twenty kilometres in either direction. Most of it was shaded green to represent the surrounding fields and forests; smaller roads and trails wound between the hills, each change in elevation represented by a faint contour line.

"There's a lot of information there," Preston observed.

"There's information, sure, but I have no idea what I'm looking for." She pointed to a tiny grey square in the northeast corner. "Look. It says that this is an old hunting cabin, some heritage-listed thing – so historical sites _are_ on here, but they're tiny and there's dozens of them and it takes a while to figure out what they are."

"Is this the only map you can use? I thought some of the others might—"

"Yes, Preston, this is the only one. The other maps are way too small."

"Oh. Okay." He glanced down at the book he'd found. It was a history of the local forestry industry, written by some boring dead guy (woodcutting had been Lillian's main contribution to society before the steel mill came in). Unfortunately, it wasn't very useful either.

Alice glanced at him, rubbing her eyes. "We _really_ have to find this place. Is anyone else coming to help?"

"No, everyone says they're busy."

"Boys. Typical."

"Aaaaand I don't think more people would fix anything. The library's fairly small, so there aren't that many relevant books here. Martin said he'd ask his dad about it, since apparently he's on some kind of town preservation committee."

"Good, he'd better – because we've got about six hours until the weekend's over."

"We should be optimistic, I'm sure we'll find it," he said confidently. "I'm going to have another look."

"Okay," Alice sighed. "I'll be here."

Preston got up from the table while Alice kept poring over the map. He made his way towards the bookshelves, his footsteps barely audible on the thick carpet.

The Lillian Library had a relatively small collection (as you'd expect for a town of its size). The building was quite old, single-story, but with high ceilings to fit the three-metre shelves. He walked through the young adult section, then regretfully past sci-fi and fantasy, towards the non-fiction area which occupied the shelves at the rear. Faded educational posters hung from the walls, covered in a fine layer of dust. It was decently busy on a Sunday morning and the air hummed with the sounds of people trying to be extremely quiet. _I spent WAY too much time here as a kid; the librarian always used to be annoyed at me when she had to order in obscure books._

Conveniently, the library had a shelf devoted to local information and history. A lot of it was folders of old council documents – building plans, meeting minutes, photographs – as well as maps, journals and similar information. _You know, boring stuff. Stuff that nobody would ever need in a million years._ Preston tilted his head sideways and ran his finger along the spines, waiting for a title to catch his eye. _Oooh, that one might be good. And… no. Maybe? Might as well try it._ He took two books from the shelf and knelt down, laying them on the carpet in front of him.

The first was a summary of the town's founding and early history. A quick scan of the contents hinted that it wouldn't be particularly relevant; flicking through a couple of chapters confirmed it. _Nicely written. Very useless._

The second, though, was much more interesting: it was a short guide to the local forests, including list of walking trails and campsites. It also contained a chapter on 'Historic Sites'. _Bingo._ The pages were old and very thin – printed in the 40's, apparently – but soon enough he found the right section. _It's only thirty years ago, the information won't have changed much. Watermills, watermills, mills, mills… Preston Mills, looking for mills. Someone should write a joke about that._ Each site was listed with a detailed location and description, as well as some background info. _Ugh, bridges. I don't care about bridges. Or churches – who knew there was like, a dozen churches around here._

As he walked back to Alice, nose buried in the booklet, he suddenly discovered what he was looking for. The problem was, there wasn't one old, ruined watermill in the woods near Lillian.

There were two.

He slapped the booklet on the table next to Alice. "I have something."

"Holy—" She jumped. "Don't _do_ that."

"I don't see how that possiblycould've scared you."

"Well, it's not like I'm expecting loud noises in a library. What did you find?"

"Lots." Preston turned to the relevant pages. "Basically, it turns out that there are two old watermills in the Lillian area. Both are from the 1800's, and both were used as sawmills. This book gives locations for each of them, and we should be able to match up the trails and rivers they describe to the features on your map."

"…There's _two_?"

"Yes, as I said."

"Then how do we know which is the right one?"

"I… still have to work that out."

Alice gave him a vacant sort of look, then put her head in her hands. " _Urrrgggh_ ," she groaned. "Why does this have to be so _hard?_ "

"Um – I'm not sure what you were hoping for, but I figured that trying to locate a building from a dream would be pretty darn complicated. I'm happy we got this far."

"Okay." She took a deep breath. "You're right. So, is there anything else we can recall from the dream which'll help us identify the location?"

Preston tried to remember; it was difficult. The booklet didn't have pictures, obviously, and the descriptions were nowhere near good enough to match to what they'd seen. _Gosh, if only I had extensively detailed knowledge of 19_ _th_ _-century construction techniques. Come on. Think. If you can't isolate it using the building, then can you isolate it using… the landscape?_

_Were there any identifiable features of the landscape? It was downhill, I suppose, but that isn't helpful. The trees were ordinary. The path wasn't unusual. And the river was— aha! That's it!_

"We can use the river," Preston realised. "The river next to the mill was dry."

There was a couple seconds silence while Alice's brain worked out what this meant. Then: "Ohhhhh."

"See? The river was dry, but when it was originally built, the river must've been flowing to power the mill. Hmm, maybe that's why they abandoned it… Anyway, the river probably dried up relatively recently, so it'll probably be marked as a dry riverbed on your map, which is from 1975. So all we have to do is find both the watermills on there and then see which one isn't located next to a river anymore."

"Yeah. I'm on it." Alice traced her finger over the paper, staring at it intently. Preston wondered how she'd react if he clapped right next to her ear. _Joe probably won't like me anymore if I give his girlfriend a heart attack._

"Here's one mill," she murmured. "...And here's the other. They match the trails in the book. One's next to the Lillian River."

"And?"

"The other's not next to anything, it's at the bottom of a dry valley. That must be it!" She smiled triumphantly. Preston peered at the mark Alice had circled. It was a tiny grey box about ten miles north-west of town, nestled between a few steep hills. It appeared quite isolated, but there was a road that led to a campsite nearby, and from there was a trail which hopefully wouldn't be too challenging or overgrown…

"Alright! I guess we're filming tonight," Alice said.

"Yeah." _Or at least you will be_. "I, umm…"

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm surprised we found it, we're basically proper detectives now."

"Yep. They should call us to solve crimes, haha."

When Alice's face lit up like that, he could see why Joe liked her. "You wanna call the others?"

"Definitely, I'll do it as soon as I get home. If Charles doesn't give us a really big 'thank you' I'm gonna _murder_ him!"

"Oooh, I'll help!"

* * *

They ran through the woods down a winding, overgrown path, Alice gripping Martin's hand tightly, urging him along behind her. Following them was a small train of equipment – Charles holding the camera, Joe holding the microphone, Cary holding loops of cables and trying to make sure no one tripped over them. The late afternoon forest was gloomy and slightly, the trees standing tall, the canopy intertwined overhead with a slight haze of mist that obscured the middle distance. Ferns and twigs rustled beneath their feet. Cary swore as a cable caught on a branch, yanking it free and running to keep up.

Alice looked down at her watch desperately, then back up at the path. "Six fifty-nine..." She shook her head and started dragging him even faster.

"Where are we going?" Martin asked, a panicked edge in his voice.

"I don't know," she muttered. "I don't know. Somewhere. Anywhere."

"Why did we leave the car? Where are you—"

"At 7PM every day, it happens. No matter what I do, it always happens."

" _What_ happens?"

"You—..." Alice paused. "It doesn't matter. You won't believe me. She's always at the same place, and she always does the same thing, but maybe – maybe she won't find us out here."

_"Who_?!"

"Just trust me."

Charles kept the camera trained on them, moving as smoothly as he could (it was difficult to see where you were going when you were focusing through a tiny viewfinder). He raised his fist and gave the signal.

Suddenly, Alice stopped. "Here." She pushed Martin ahead of her into a damp, mossy clearing. It was a small dip in the hillside surrounded by chest-high boulders. They crouched down. Martin quickly cleaned his glasses with his sleeve, then put them back on his nose. Alice glanced at her watch again.

"Why are we stopping?" he asked.

"Shhh. Listen."

The camera crew crabwalked to the side so they could peek through the rocks. Joe slipped the mike into the gap, holding it next to Martin's chest. They'd already done this scene once from the other angle and his arms were getting kinda tired.

_It's a good scene though. Like, surprisingly good. The Case was basically a practice run compared to this. Last time, Charles was figuring things out as he went along, but now he actually knows what works best and how to do it. Martin and Alice are great too – it's like the camera isn't even there._

The silence was suddenly shattered by the _crack_ of a snapped twig. Reflexively, Alice ducked. "Get down," she whispered.

Martin's confusion rose to an all-time high. Nevertheless, he followed her lead, pressing low against the dirt. Alice's eyes darted around the forest. Another _crack._ Time to move the camera again. This time, Charles shuffled forwards a little, pointing it at a section of empty forest. And, right on cue, a shadowy figure emerged from the mists between the trees: Rachel.

She had the same haggard face, the same compact black clothes as the scene at the lake. This time, though, she was being more cautious. She crept forwards, making as little sound as possible (but it was hard to avoid a slight rustle of undergrowth). Her gaze was focused like a laser on the worn circle of rocks. Clearly, she knew where they were hiding. The capgun was pointed at the ground. For now.

She inched closer. Alice waited, taking cover behind the boulders, listening to the approaching footsteps. The sounds grew more and more distinct. And then, when it seemed her enemy was _right there—_

Alice leapt out from her hiding spot and punched Rachel in the face. Or rather, she _pretended_ to punch Rachel in the face – but because the ground was slippery, and it was hard to react so quickly, her first ended up bouncing off Rachel's chin with a dull kind of _clonk!_

"Oh my god I'm so sorry!" Alice squeaked.

Rachel fell back, skidding into the leaves. "Ouch," she croaked.

"Cut!" Charles shouted, somewhat unnecessarily. "Woah, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." She rubbed her chin, clacked her jaw a few times. "It was a surprise more than anything else."

"I am _so_ sorry," Alice said, "it was so fast, I thought you weren't that close. And we practiced it heaps of times too."

"Don't worry about it."

"You _sure_ you're OK?"

"Yes. Sure." She got to her feet with a weary smile, wiping the dirt from her clothes. "Would you like to do that scene again?"

"If you're up for it," Charles said.

"I'm fine. Really."

"Okay. Well, we can start from where you come in—"

"Wait! Just gotta fix something." Joe dropped the microphone and darted forwards, makeup box in hand. He opened it and took out some of the light grey powder. Alice's fingers had left a slight mark on Rachel's cheek, and while it wasn't extremely visible, it was worth getting these things right. Rachel waited patiently as he re-applied the makeup.

"You'll have to take my word for it, but Alice usually doesn't go around punching people," he said quietly.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Obviously. Tell her not to beat herself up about it."

"You took that hit pretty well though."

"The trick is to sort of... roll with it. It helps to move with the impact."

"Uh-huh. All done." He packed up the box and jogged back behind the camera. Rachel made her way into the trees, taking a few extra paces so that she was moderately hidden.

Charles stepped back. "Alright, everyone in position! Three, two, one, action!"

Once again, Rachel crept forward, this time taking care to make a few conspicuous noises so the others would know approximately where she was. She edged towards the rocks, gun held firmly in her hands.

This time, when Alice leapt out it went perfectly to plan. Her fist _whooshed_ past Rachel's cheek and she threw herself backwards in response; the camera angle would conceal that it wasn't a true hit. The gun skidded away across the leaves. Alice followed her down, pushing her onto the ground, holding her arms in place. She struggled weakly. Alice glared at her, breathing hard. Martin stood up behind the rocks and stared at them for a long moment, his mouth open in utter bewilderment.

"Darling, what the heck is happening? Who is that woman?" (Inwardly, Rachel winced. _We'll have to fix that line._ )

She didn't turn round. " _Why_ ," Alice hissed. "Why are you doing this? Why does he always have to die?"

Rachel stayed silent, jaw clenched.

" _Why_?! Tell me!"

Something in her voice – the desperation, the confusion, perhaps the echo of grief – made her answer. "Because it's his fault," she said simply.

"What is?"

"...Everything." Suddenly Rachel rolled sideways, and with the speed of a striking snake she grabbed the gun and—

_BANG!_ Martin fell backwards into the rocks, clawing his chest.

"Cut!" Charles made an 'X' with his hands. "Thanks guys, that was great!"

There was a pause. Cary frowned, a strange look on his face. "But was it 'mint', Charles?"

"Um... yeah, I guess so.

"No, Charles. You have to say it."

"What?"

"Just _say_ it!"

"Uh – okay? It was mint?"

"THERE it is. Alright everyone, now we can go home. Man, this movie's kinda dark."

Joe stifled a giggle with his hand as Charles looked around, puzzled. Alice chuckled. Rachel decided that it had to be a joke that she didn't understand yet and picked herself up off the ground.

"I agree," Martin added, "about the 'dark' thing, that is. Every scene seems to end with me dying."

"So?" Cary asked.

"So, don't you think that's weird?"

"Nope. I think it's pretty cool, actually. And remember, every scene in our last movie ended with _me_ dying."

"That's different. You were a zombie!"

"Well, how do you know you're not a zombie in this movie?"

Martin stopped, mouth half-open. "God, you are _so_ hard to argue with."

_That's it_ , Rachel thought to herself. _It's the arguing. That's the key. Every ten minutes someone's cracking stupid a joke about someone else. What's that saying that people have? 'Real friends don't get offended when you insult them; they smile and call you something even worse.'_

"What do you guys feel like doing now?" Charles asked. "We could do one more scene, or... we could do the other thing." He glanced around at the others, and Rachel immediately noticed that he avoided her gaze. "And where's Preston? Did he say why he couldn't come?"

"He said he was busy," Martin replied. "Didn't say why. He just... left."

"That's weird. I hope there weren't any issues."

"Nah, he looked fine. Sometimes, Charles, people have other things to do."

It wasn't obvious, but the wrongness still prickled in the back of their minds – an empty space where a tall, curly-haired kid would usually be standing.

"What should we do?" Charles said again.

"Maybe we _should_ start looking for it," Alice said slowly. "We don't know how long it's going to take."

"Good idea," Joe agreed.

"It's not far from here, right?" Cary asked.

"Down the path, a couple hundred yards that way."

"And it's definitely the right place?"

"We're pretty sure," Alice said. "It's the only one we could find that fits."

"...Alright." Cary shrugged. "Let's do this. We can probably leave the movie stuff here, no one's gonna take it."

Rachel watched them curiously. _Come on, guys. Stop pretending. A five-year-old could figure out that something shifty's going on._ She couldn't help but hear her father's words, echoing in her ears: _Watch. Listen. Be prepared._

_OR, maybe I could be a normal person and_ trust _who I'm hanging out with for once. They'll tell me what's going on when they're ready._

_I hope._

* * *

The path was narrow and mostly overgrown, barely more than a hint of soil visible through the undergrowth. They trooped along it single file, stepping over rocks and fallen branches, winding between the dark, arrow-straight trunks. The air was thick with a deep, earthy smell that made their noses itch. It didn't feel like summer – not down here, beneath the trees. The shafts of sunlight didn't carry any warmth and were soon swallowed by the greenery.

"Kinda creepy, isn't it," Joe said quietly.

"Great. You had to go and say it, didn't you," Martin replied. "I was doing so _well._ Charles, when's your dad picking us up again?"

"About an hour."

" _Great_. Just long enough for an axe murderer to sneak up and cut us all into pieces."

"Shut up," Cary hissed. "Shut up shut up shut up."

For once, he didn't have a snappy retort. Rachel wished he did. The forest hemmed them in from all sides like a giant, living thing (...which it was). Twigs and branches snatched at their clothing. Insects scurried away from their footsteps. Up front, Charles was doing his best to clear a path through the ferns, and their springy leaves twisted and rustled in a strange, whispering chorus.

"You sure this is the right way, Alice?" Joe asked.

"Yes. Sort of."

"Um... only sort of?"

"If this is the right path, then it's the path we should be following."

"That makes _no_ sense," Cary said.

"Listen – if we're still on the path, then we're going in the right direction. Give it a few more minutes. I've got the map in my pocket if you wanna check."

"I don't think that'll help," Rachel said, looking around them. The forest was the same in every direction: green, misty, the trunks and branches forming a dark and interlocking tapestry. They appeared to be walking downhill, though, which according to Alice was a good sign. Her shoes slipped and scraped on the carpet of dead leaves. "Um... Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"I hate to ask, but can you tell me where we're going? If we are going to be murdered, I'd at least like to know where."

Cary glared at her.

"Of course. We're trying to find an old watermill that's around here," Charles replied, glancing over his shoulder. "Apparently it's at the end of this path."

"And you're doing this because..."

"Well. It's complicated."

A pause.

"It's... a treasure hunt, sort of."

Rachel waited for him to elaborate. (It was a good technique for getting information – keep quiet, and people will try to fill the silence.)

"It's a town competition. There's different groups entering it, and... you have to be the first to find certain things. We figured out that one piece is buried here."

"Oh. Cool." _Hmm. Stranger things have happened. Still doesn't explain why they're being so cagey about it._

_Well, if that's what they want to tell me..._

"There had better be something at this stupid ruin," Martin said, "otherwise this is going to be a _huge_ waste of time."

"I honestly think it's about fifty-fifty," Joe said. "Don't ask me why."

"Why?" Cary asked.

"I reckon we have to start trusting this stuff." He shrugged. "Or we at least have to give it a chance. I mean, there might be nothing there – there's probably nothing there – but if there _is_ , then—"

They stopped.

There, in the forest ahead of them, was the house.

* * *

The watermill squatted in the middle of the clearing: a dark, gloomy ruin. It brought to mind a skeleton, half-buried by the surrounding vegetation like the weathered bones of a long-dead animal. The stone walls were crumbling in the corners, encrusted in moss and ivy. The window-frames were empty, the shutters long rotted away. The roof, though, was mostly intact – tiles sagging a little, beams exposed, still waging war with gravity.

It was unnerving, how much it looked like the dream... identical, as if it'd been plucked from their imaginations and dropped straight into this corner of the forest. To the right of the building, the decaying remains of a waterwheel jutted from their supports, suspended above a small gully that was the dried-up river. It felt like the dream, too, in the way that the door seemed to beckon them towards it, even though that shadowed, deserted portal was the last place any sane person would want to go...

"Well, here we are!" Alice said with forced brightness.

"Yeah. Great," Charles replied. "Let's get this over with. Anyone got a flashlight?"

"Nope."

"No."

"Forgot to bring one."

Charles stared at them, then back at the mill. "You're kidding me."

"It's not _that_ dark," Martin said. "Light'll come in through the gaps in the roof."

"Looks pretty freaking dark to me," Cary murmured.

"It'll be fine. We'd better hurry, though." Joe stepped forwards, walking towards the entrance, struck with an inexplicable sense of deja vu. The ground was thick with scattered branches and he had to watch where he put his feet. Slowly, the others followed. The mill wasn't very big – maybe ten metres to a side – but it still had an imposing presence. He paused when he reached the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Charles suddenly squeezed past him. "I'll go first," he said firmly.

Joe couldn't help noticing that he looked a little nervous. _We all do._ That was what Charles did, though – he gritted his teeth and pushed right through before second thoughts became an option.

In single file they ducked through the entrance, into the darkened ruin. Their voices stayed around a low murmur. It felt better that way.

" _Woah_."

"Look at this place..."

"I wonder how long it's been since anyone was in here?"

Joe turned around, taking in the view; it was surprisingly easy to see inside. As Martin had guessed, a fair amount of sunlight crept in where tiles had sagged, creating gaps or where the slate was missing altogether. They appeared to be standing in the largest room, square, mostly empty, with others hidden behind more dark doorways. The air was cold. Most of the furniture and equipment seemed to have been taken away, probably when the owners abandoned it; all that remained were a few crates and toppled shelves. Thickets of spiderwebs nestled in the corners. A rusted hammer lay in the muck by Joe's foot. Dirt was everywhere. The floor might've been wood once, or stone, but it was hard to tell under the layers of mould and grime.

Cary pointed at the ceiling. "What's that?"

His finger was directed at the largest hole in the roof. It was circular, appearing more recent than the others. The tiles were cracked and burned around the opening, and curiously, the exposed beam beneath it had been sheared cleanly in two.

"It's as if something fell and... cut right through it," Alice said.

_Something fell..._ Immediately, Joe looked down, following the approximate angle of the gap to where it met the ground. There, in the corner of the room, was a slight dip in the dirt – a crater. Shallow, but definitely there.

And, in the middle of the crater, was a perfect hole about five inches wide.

They gathered round it, staring at it inquisitively. Charles knelt down on his hands and knees and put his face close to the hole, attempting to peer inside. He leaned closer. Cary kept glancing over his shoulder, as if to make sure no ghosts were creeping up on them (or worse).

"Charles, be careful," Alice muttered.

"It's alright. I can't see much, but it's deep. Really deep. Wait, I think..." He sat up with a grunt. "I think there's another room down there."

"Like a basement?" Martin asked.

"Yeah. Maybe. It's hard to distinguish it, but there's some kind of open space."

Joe's mouth twisted into a grim kind of smile. _This just gets better and better, doesn't it._ He spared a quick glance at Rachel, who was taking it pretty well – standing back quietly, with slightly furrowed brows. _I doubt she bought Charles' story, but maybe she's as curious as we are._ "It makes sense," he said out loud. "The thing is supposed to be buried... whatever it is."

"Yeah." Charles rummaged around some more, sweeping leaves away with his hands. "And I can definitely feel something— aha!" He extracted a thick metal ring from the muck and rattled it on its hinges. "Trapdoor!" he said triumphantly.

"Trapdoor..." Martin echoed, less triumphantly. Together they helped uncover the wood, using their feet to kick off the dirt and branches. The trapdoor was thick and heavily built (it had to be, to have survived this long) and was set flush with the floor. Soon enough, the edges were exposed and Charles grasped the ring with both hands.

"Come on guys, help me." Martin crouched down on his left, and Joe on his right, and together they grabbed the handle and tried to pull it upwards.

"RrrrrrrrRRGGGH— dammit!"

The wood was stuck fast, stubbornly refusing to budge. A second attempt didn't improve things and a third only made their fingers ache.

Joe stepped back and cracked his knuckles. "Ouch."

"I hope it's not locked," Martin said.

"It can't be, there's no keyhole or bolt or anything! We probably need a little more force."

They tried again, bracing their legs against the floor. This time, though, Alice wrapped her arms around Joe's stomach, and Cary helped Martin, and Rachel slipped in next to Charles and added her own strength.

As heavy as the trapdoor was, it couldn't resist six of them. With a sudden _pop!_ the hatch lifted, swinging up on rusted hinges. _Squeeeeeeaak!_ Once it was free it moved quicker than they expected, and a second later everyone fell backwards in a jumble of cursing and tangled limbs.

"Aaaah!

"Crap!"

"Get off get off, that hurts!"

Gradually, they extracted themselves from the pile, Cary wincing, Charles sweating, and gathered round the open hatch. In unison they peered into the darkness. It was difficult to see much; definitely a cellar though. A set of rotting stairs led downwards in the shadows, meeting the barely-visible floor a couple of metres below.

"Okay," Cary said. "Before we do anything else, I'm just gonna put it out there that I don't like where this is going."

"Noted," Alice said. She swallowed. "Are we _sure_ no one has a light?"

Cary blinked. "...Shit, I forgot!" He dug around in his pockets and whipped out a cigarette lighter. "It's better than nothing, right? I know, I'm awesome." He flicked the lighter on, off and a yellow flame sparked to life.

Charles sighed. Although the flame was comforting, it still seemed awfully feeble compared to the darkness below. "Yeah, better than nothing, but – hey, why are you giving it to _me_?"

"Because you're going first, aren't you?"

"I— ugh. Fine." Charles snatched the lighter from him and slithered towards the stairs. "If I die, it's your fault."

The stairway was narrow and without handrails, almost more like a ladder. It didn't look particularly stable – especially after decades of neglect. Charles sat at the edge of the trapdoor, legs dangling over the first step and took a quick, nervous breath.

Rachel crouched down next to him. "Do you want me to—"

"No, it's alright." He stepped downwards, steadying himself with his hands – then took another step, and another, gradually descending out of view. The boards creaked beneath his feet. When his head dropped below the level of the trapdoor, Joe heard a sharp _click_ as he turned on the lighter.

"See anything interesting?" Alice called out.

"Not really. This lighter's full of crap."

"Hey! Then give it back, dumbass!"

"Come and get it! I can see the hole we found, though... whatever made it must've gone right through the floor."

"No axe murderers?" Martin asked hopefully.

"None. Except the one behind you."

"Charles, I really hate you sometimes."

Despite himself, Joe felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Whatever. I'm gonna keep going. It's pretty empty down here, if you want to follow— AAAH!" There was a sharp, sudden _CRACK_ , like wood snapping, then a loud _thump_ and a grunt of pain.

"Charles!"

They quickly crowded around the trapdoor, peeping over the edge. Charles lay spreadeagled on the floor of the basement – the last, ancient step had split in two beneath his weight, sending him tumbling to the ground face first.

"God-damnit!" He swore loudly. He'd managed to break his fall with his arms, and slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. A brief trickle of red ran from where he'd scraped an elbow. "Guys, I'm okay. You can come down now."

Cary frowned. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Well, I'm not wandering around down here by myself. The rest of the steps are solid. Come _on_."

One by one, they made their way down the stairway, arms out to keep their balance. Charles' bright yellow rainjacket was something to focus on in the darkness – and it became dark _very_ quick once you were beneath ground level without any convenient sources of sunlight. Joe tested each board carefully before he put his weight on it; some of them wobbled a _bit_ too much to be comforting. Eventually, they all reached the bottom of the cellar (except for Cary and Rachel, who'd stayed up top to keep watch in case anything bad happened), and Charles held the lighter up and swept it round in a circle, like an explorer's lantern in a dusty Egyptian tomb.

Strangely, the cellar was _bigger_ than the room above them: the lighter's glow couldn't quite reach the far walls, unable to pierce that unnerving blackness. Like the rest of the mill, the room was almost bare, empty but for some enormous sawblades laying on the floor and some heavy iron chains still hanging from rusting hooks. Thick wooden pillars supported the ceiling above. A tiny, bone-white rat skeleton lay scattered on the dirt, perhaps undisturbed for decades.

Nothing stirred.

"There's another entrance," Martin said. He pointed at the faint outline of a set of wide double doors.

"Why would they— oh. We must be level with the riverbank. They probably loaded the wood onto boats," Alice said. "That makes sense."

Joe rubbed his forearms, shivering a little. The air was very cold. "At least we've got another way out, just in case..."

"Just in case what?"

"I, I don't know. Forget it." _Imagine hearing a scream. Imagine Cary and Rachel being... dragged away. Imagine hearing footsteps... and then a shadow, swinging the trapdoor closed, trapping you deaf and blind in a pit beneath the earth. Starving. Helpless._

_Great, NOW you've made it scary. Horror movies are the_ worst _._

"Let's be quick," Charles said, as if he could sense everyone's fears. He walked over to the hole in the ceiling; a faint shaft of light fell through it, sharply angled, illuminating a dip in the ground. A crater. It wasn't large, only a few feet in diameter, but the surrounding soil had clearly been cracked and compacted if something had impacted it at high speed. Charles stepped into the crater, then looked up into the light, following its path through the mill's floor, then its roof, then the trees far above them.

"Something fell here," he murmured. "From the sky. It must've been going really fast to punch through to the cellar. _Really_ fast."

"Like...a meteorite?" Joe suggested.

No one was eager to spend much time in the darkness, so they knelt down around the crater and started digging. The earth had been disturbed a little and turned over by whatever hit it, which made it relatively easy to use their hands. Gradually, the hole grew deeper. Dust clouded the musty cellar air and Charles sneezed, nearly dropping the lighter—

"Hey, I think I found something!" Martin said excitedly. He stuck his fingers into the dirt, feeling around; swept it aside one last time. Abruptly, something was revealed at the bottom of the cavity.

_Huh._ Joe frowned. _Another one? I don't know whether I should be surprised, or... if it's exactly what you'd expect._

Martin took the object out of the ground and held it up to the light. He brushed the soil off its edges; it was muddy, grimy, but every one of them could recognise its complex segmented shape. It was something that Joe was very familiar with. Something he'd never thought he'd see, ever again. Something that'd fallen from a distant star, and now someone, somewhere, had somehow led them straight to it.

A small, white cube.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a little longer than usual because I'm no longer on holidays, and any time I spend writing fanfiction from now on should probably be spent writing my engineering thesis instead.
> 
> Oh well. That's life. I'm pretty excited about the next chapter – there will be twists, there will be turns – but it's probably going to take a month or two. As ever, thanks for reading and sticking around, and I hope it's been an interesting journey so far…
> 
> Disclaimer: Persona 4 is awesome and you should play it and may have inspired certain things in this chapter. I REGRET NOTHING.


	27. Visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally posted in three parts, which means the whole thing is 27K words long (a.k.a. nearly half a novel). This is ridiculous. I therefore recommend not reading it all at once :-p

* * *

_TRACKING STATION OHIO-DX 23.11.09: status update requested_  
_SQUADRON LEADER ALPHA 23.11.17: still tailing contact / ascending rapidly on bearing two-seven-one over / appears to be leaving atmosphere over_  
_TS-O 23.11.31: orders are to follow until operational ceiling_  
_SL-A 23.11.37: roger_  
_SL-A 23.13.05: contact has turned around over_  
_TS-O 23.13.15: squadron leader please clarify 'turned'_  
_SL-A 23.13.22: contact has switched to opposite bearing but still rising over / we are nearing operational ceiling and cannot pursue much longer over_  
_TL-O 23.13.39: understood squadron leader / is there any reason for the change of direction_  
_SL-A 23.13.44: negative_  
_SL-A 23.13.59: correction / it looks like something is [pause] chasing it over_  
_TL-O 23.14.06: squadron leader please clarify 'something'_  
_SL-A 23.14.23: cannot clarify at this time over_  
_TL-O 23.14.27: squadron leader please clarify 'chasing'_  
_SL-A 23.14.38: cannot clarify at this—  
_ _[TRANSCRIPT ENDS]_

**\- Excerpt from an air force radio transcript on the night of June 6th, 1979**

* * *

Joe sat on the living room sofa, staring dully at the TV. He was still recovering from the eventful weekend and a busy Monday at school, unable to escape that warm haze of tiredness. _I was supposed to finish painting that tank model today… I guess it'll still be there tomorrow._ He shifted on the sofa and felt something crinkle in his pocket – a note from his teacher, folded into a messy square of paper.

 _Oh, right. Dad has to sign this for the field trip._ "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you sign this?"

"Yeah, sure." Jack emerged from the dining room and took the note from his hand. He held it up to the light, squinting. "'Permission slip for the school trip on Wednesday'… 'full-day excursion'… 'Springfield military base'… 'parent or guardian please sign here' – wait, what? You're going to the military base?"

Joe turned around, surprised. "We are?"

"That's what it says here. It's an 'informative tour of the equipment and facilities.'"

"I totally didn't read it." _Whoops._

"Well, I'm glad I did – you sure this is a good idea? You guys have spent more 'n' enough time there already, with all the…"

"Medical tests."

"Right, with all the medical tests they did. I don't trust it."

"Dad, it'll be fine. The whole class will be there."

Jack frowned uneasily; then shrugged. "If you say so." He pressed the paper against the wall and scratched out his signature. "Here. But _promise_ me you won't get into any trouble."

* * *

"Alice, you're amazing," Martin said happily.

"I know." She leaned forwards on the cafeteria table, surrounded by the usual lunchtime hubbub. "It wasn't that hard to organise. I just suggested the idea to the school counsellor last week and he sorta ran with it."

"But this is _great!_ Now we can go to the base and find out what they know."

"Oh, sure," Cary said, unconvinced. "We can go to the base, find out what they know, then get caught sneaking around a restricted area and get shot to pieces."

"Since when are you such a chicken?" Charles asked.

"Since that time we were almost blown up by tanks a couple months ago. Remember that, Charles? Since _then._ Sorry for being cautious."

"I agree with Cary," Joe said. "We are literally going into the heart of the enemy."

"Figuratively," Preston corrected. "But, yes, we don't know what's gonna be there. I don't like our chances."

Charles shook his head. "We'll be fine. It's not like we're going to do anything super dangerous. It's a school field trip, for god's sake, we just need to think of a plan which won't get us caught."

"A plan…" Martin trailed off. "Hey, Alice. Has that cube done anything weird yet?"

"Not that I've seen. I hid in my wardrobe and it was still there when I left for school."

"Huh."

Finding the cube had been a slight anticlimax. It looked exactly like the one they'd recovered in the train crash, but after taking it home, this one – so far – hadn't busted any holes in Alice's bedroom walls. (The hole in Joe's room was still there, stealthily covered by a movie poster). Cary had spent an hour picking at it like a Rubik's cube but only succeeded in breaking one of his fingernails.

"So we're going," Alice said, sucking thoughtfully on her drink bottle.

"Of _course_ we're going," Martin replied.

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, everyone agreed.

"Do we tell our parents?" Joe asked.

"Why? They already know, they had to sign our permission slips."

"No, I mean… should we tell them about what we're really doing, what our idea is. Just in case."

"Are you crazy?" Cary hissed. "Imagine how many questions they'll ask! If we tell 'em that, we'd have to tell 'em everything."

Charles paused. "Is that… is really that so bad? They could help. It'd be nice to have some adults on our team if we, you know… if it goes wrong."

"In theory, yes," Preston said, "but I have no interest in being committed to an insane asylum, and I'm _pretty sure_ that's what'd happen if we aren't extremely careful about what we say."

Alice frowned, nodding. "Besides, that puts our parents in danger. I just _know_ my dad would do something stupid if he understood what we're up to. The military would be onto them in a week. By keeping this to ourselves, we're keeping them safe."

 _For now,_ Joe thought. _But we can't do this on our own forever. Pretty soon, we're going to need help, and when that time comes…_ "Alright. It stays secret."

"If something _does_ go wrong," Alice added, "I can come rescue you the next day."

"How, exactly?" Cary asked.

"Boys are going on Wednesday, girls are going Thursday. So if for some reason you don't come back on Wednesday afternoon, it's me versus the entire United States army – and I'm gonna win because I've been _practicing_."

* * *

"Practicing what?" Joe asked after school, as he looked around Alice's bedroom.

"Karate. I thought it'd be a good idea to learn."

"Wow, really? That's super cool. Maybe you can teach me."

" _I_ can't yet, but my dad can – it turns out he was pretty good at it in high school. I thought it'd be fun. And next time something happens, at least I can try and fight back, you know? Be more useful. I just started though so I have _no_ idea what I'm doing. You wanna sit down?"

"Thanks."

Alice pushed aside a couple of pillows and cleared a spot on the end of her bed. Joe took a seat, hands on his knees. Unlike his own warzone of a bedroom, Alice's room was a paragon of simplicity – a desk in the corner, a bed with plain sheets, most things neatly packed away in cupboards. A single window faced the southern part of the yard, letting in the afternoon sunlight. Cheap white paint faded on bare walls. The furniture was old, the floorboards scratched and worn, and voices echoed from the rafters. It didn't feel like a place that anyone _lived_ in; more a place where someone just… existed. Hollow. Quiet. Grey.

Gradually, though, more and more colour had begun to seep in, like a garden starting to bloom. A photograph on the desk. A box of used film. A rusting pocketknife. One of Charles' stale Twizzlers, bent into a heart. A shelf of paperbacks with dog-eared covers and crinkly, yellowed pages. And (a new addition) the Hunchback of Notre Dame: snarling sadly on its green plastic pedestal, painted late one night by steady hands while waiting for a train.

Joe had been inside a couple of times before but never for very long. Alice was the kind of person who didn't seem to like spending time in her own house, always preferring to be outside, somewhere else. _For a long time, I guess this wasn't a place she enjoyed living in. Lots of crappy memories. Lots of being alone._

 _At least that's different now. Whatever happens, we're_ both _happier._

"You don't have to keep it there if you don't want to," he said, breaking the silence.

"Keep what?"

"The model."

The hunchback peered down at them from its perch atop the dresser, shock and pain frozen on its lips. Alice rolled her eyes. "I like it, Joe. Really."

"I always thought it looked kinda creepy."

"It's not creepy; it's beautiful. If you don't know the story behind it, it might be scary, sure, but if you do… it's beautiful. And sad."

"Doesn't that make _you_ sad, though?"

"Nothing wrong with being gloomy sometimes. There's a reason I picked it over all the cars and planes, you know." She grinned. "Thanks for giving it to me."

 _You're welcome._ Alice dropped her schoolbooks on her desk and moved to the dresser, started running a comb through her hair. Joe glanced around, fiddling with his wristwatch. It still felt strange, being in here; strangely personal. _I couldn't care less about seeing Charles' underwear lying around all over the place, but somehow this is completely different._ His actual reason for visiting was to come pick up the watch, which he'd apparently dropped on the porch last week. That had, of course, taken literally ten seconds, but Alice had invited him inside anyways to make the long walk slightly less pointless.

"The watch still works?"

"Yeah. Still ticking."

"You want something to eat?"

"No, no. Um, I should probably go—"

"Don't. Stay a little while." She gave her hair a final shake and set the comb down on the dresser. "It's fine, my dad's not home for another hour."

"Oh. Sure, I guess." He paused, searching for a topic, trying to ignore the huge spider he'd just noticed in the corner. "Is the cube still being boring?"

"See for yourself." Alice walked to the closet and extracted it from beneath a pile of socks. With a cursory glance at its white, scarred surface, she chucked it over to Joe who caught it with a fumble. He threw it up in the air a few times, spinning it like a baseball. The cube didn't feel special – just cold. Smooth. Its matte surface didn't even catch the light, and surely a vital piece of technology would have a _bit_ of sparkle.

Joe sighed, placing it on the bed next to him. "I really thought this would be important."

"How do you know it isn't?"

"When you think about it, the other cubes weren't exciting either. I mean, our one sat in my room for a week before tearing a hole in my wall. That's it."

Alice shrugged. "That's fair. But we know what we're looking for, don't we? If it moves, something's up."

Then, slowly, with a curious glance, she stepped across the carpet and sat down beside him on the sheets. Her fingers lightly brushed against his, maybe by accident, maybe not and Joe turned away awkwardly, heart instantly thumping a little faster. Once again he couldn't help it. _Don't go red, don't go red… dammit, you're going red._ Ignoring him, she reached behind her and grabbed a battered diary from the bedside table, half-smiling at the cover.

Sun fell through the upstairs window, painting the sheets in gold.

It also glinted off the photograph on her desk, and for some reason he looked at her, really _looked_ at her, and compared her face to—

"What?" she asked, eyes suddenly meeting his.

"Uh – its' nothing. I know you don't like talking about it."

"It's OK. I look pretty different to my mom, huh." She nodded at the photograph. "That's her, by the way."

"Yeah." Joe swallowed. The woman in the picture had brown hair, not blonde, and her facial structure was much more round than Alice's. She was standing alone in front of a fountain, a thin smile on her lips. "When's the picture from?"

"A few years before I was born."

"…Sorry for being nosy."

"Don't worry, I totally deserve it after asking all those questions about – you know. I barely knew you. You must've hated it."

 _If it was anyone else, I probably would have. But…_ "I'm glad you did. It helped, I think."

Together, they stared at the photograph for a long, wordless moment.

Eventually, Alice sighed. "Dad says that I _am_ her kid. I used to not believe him, except now… I guess I do." She snorted. "It's stupid. I don't know which version of the truth would be better. Which one would make me happier. I don't know if I even care." As usual, her voice was calm, firm, but there was still something different about it.

Beneath the steel, an unmistakeable sense of bitterness. "And everyone said it was dad's fault. Which it was mostly, I know that, but it was her fault too, for… giving up. For leaving us behind. Whatever. At least she's still out there, somewhere. That's more than some people can say. Maybe she hates me. Maybe she doesn't remember me. I don't know."

Joe didn't answer. Birds chirped in the trees outside, not a care in the world.

_Why are you such a good person? After being beaten up, dragged through the dirt, growing up alone – how are you still standing?_

"She doesn't hate you," he said. "No one could."

"…Thanks."

"When did you last see her?"

"Seven years ago."

"That's, that's a long time."

"Yep." Alice sniffed and blinked a few times, something in her eye. It was a long time. _Half our lives._

"What's the book for?"

"Oh, this?" She held it up, taken off guard by the change in topic. "It's for writing."

"I don't get it."

"Means I write in it. All kinds of stuff."

"Like what?"

"Well," Alice said proudly, "it's a secret!"

The book was old, A4-sized, with a brown leathery cover. On the front was a faded picture of a toad and badger, wearing suits and standing by a riverbank. One corner had been folded inwards to make a crude bookmark.

"I am _so_ confused," Joe murmured.

"Okay, I lied, it's not really a secret. Here." She opened it and flipped through, the pages whispering half-glimpsed words. "Last week, for example – on Monday, I wrote about the rain. On Tuesday, I wrote about some stuff that happened last year. On Wednesday and Thursday, I wrote parts of a longer story I've been working on. On Friday, I wrote about a cat that I saw, on Saturday I wrote about summer, and on Sunday…" She looked up, a mischievous glint in her eye. "On Sunday I wrote about you."

Joe twitched. "What?"

"You heard."

"Um… can I see it?"

"Nope! Not in a million years."

He couldn't help but notice that she was being very careful to conceal the pages, holding them just out of view. "So it's like a diary, then."

"Not a diary." Alice shook her head. "It's anything. Anything I feel like. Stories, memories, feelings… it's nice, sometimes, to sit and focus on something else. And besides, I'm not obsessed with collecting dorky models—"

"They're not dorky!"

"—or making movies, or burning things that probably shouldn't burn, so I need _something_ to keep busy."

"And I definitely can't read it?"

"Weeeellll…" She frowned. "I can find a page that isn't too embarrassing. Before you ask, that excludes any of the entries about you."

"There's more than one?"

"Yes, there's more than one." Alice laughed. "I should never have told you any of this."

Joe realised that he looked like a puppy begging for scraps and stopped reaching _quite_ so hard for the journal. He couldn't decide if he felt more curious, or surprised, or weirdly self-conscious.

"I have an idea," Alice continued, her voice soft. "Maybe we can write something together. Maybe you can write something about _me_." She looked at him, sitting beside him, with eyes that were warm, somehow expecting, that faint smile upon her lips.

He met her gaze for a second, then had to look away. _Man. She's really close, isn't she._

 _Oh, come on brain, think of something better than THAT._ It was strange, the things you noticed in these moments: how the air was thick, like water. The way the house seemed to shrink down to just the two of them. The dust, swirling in the sunlight. When he breathed he could even smell her – a sweet, quintessential Alice-ness that made the world stand still. _Would the others think that's creepy? Probably._

He glanced at her again, biting his lip a little. His heart was beating almost loud enough to hear. _What am I supposed to do?_ Alice seemed content to wait and brushed her fringe behind her ear. He looked downwards, lost in a smile.

The moment stretched into forever.

Then, without thought, his hand moved a little closer until he was holding hers. Her touch was soft, nervous, alive. Joe swallowed.

"Um… Alice? Can I kiss you?"

The smile grew wider. "Of course."

* * *

_Sometimes, Joe, you just have to say it._

Alice leaned forwards and their lips met, almost too fast, teeth knocking into each other with a jolt of surprise. After that first moment of awkwardness, though… it was perfect. She breathed slowly, breath catching in her throat. They parted briefly, then kissed again, and now there was no hesitation, no anxiousness, only excitement and connection. She tried to be cautious, gentle but the sensation of them being this close sent electricity down her spine.

When she opened her eyes again, leaning back, Joe had the stupidest little grin on his face.

"You look happy," she murmured.

"Do I?"

 _Yeah. You look like a star. A stupid, kind, radiant star, and I love you._ Suddenly she reached out and pressed her hand against his chest. She felt him shiver, felt his heart thump; felt the tensed contours of his body through his old green shirt as she pushed him backwards, down onto the bed, his expression betraying the slightest hint of panic. She went down after him, not giving him time to worry, bending over so that they could kiss again – one hand on his hip, the other on his chest, her hair falling in streaks around his shoulders. His arms were laid clumsily by his sides but soon reached up, pulling her closer with unexpected strength.

 _This isn't the same as with Todd. He hugged me, and I kissed him once or twice, but that was out of a sense of obligation, because that's what we should've_ _done. We never did_ this _. We never sat in my room, and laughed, or cried, or held each other like we both wanted nothing else in the universe. I never felt any of this. This anticipation, this pulse, being filled with thoughts I can't explain._

_I love you, Joe Lamb. Your face, your smile. Your quiet strength. The way you understand me, and always know what's important. Even the simplest, littlest things, like the way your hair sticks your forehead when you're running in the rain._

Instinct. She felt Joe's lips open and her tongue darted into his mouth, strange and new, somehow putting all those words and thoughts into action – his fingers tangling with her hair, hers exploring his neck, his collarbone, the skin behind his ear. She was dimly aware of something digging into her hip, the bed moving beneath them. Seconds passed, each lasting for a lifetime.

She pulled back. Joe followed her for an inch or two, lips touching, as if he didn't want it to end. With a final, quick breath, his head fell back onto the sheets and they stared at each other with eyes bright.

Alice suddenly realised that she was sweating. As she leaned over him she sensed a bead of liquid trickle down her forehead, hesitating for the briefest of seconds before dripping onto Joe's nose.

"That tickles," he chuckled.

"Sorry."

She shifted slightly, moving her leg over his, and cupped his cheek with her fingers. Slowly, delicately, she ran her thumb over his skin, and that slightest touch brought with it a multitude of sensations. His eyelashes twitched, fluttering in the sunlight. Fingers brushed over parted lips. His chest was pressing against hers so near that she could feel every one of his movements.

 _I love you._ "Don't be reckless," she said quietly. "Whatever happens tomorrow."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

"We'll be safe. I promise."

His eyes were unexpectedly serious. Alice sighed, the rush slowly fading. _Even though you're saying that… I somehow don't believe you. The second something happens you're going to go running straight into danger._

 _Same as you did for me._ "Have you even got a plan for what you're going to do?"

"Plan?"

"Yeah. A plan for how you're going to steal information from an army base."

Joe pursed his lips. "Not really. We thought it'd work best if we make it up when we get there."

Alice groaned. "Seriously? Can't you guys do _anything_ by yourselves? If I wasn't around, I swear you'd all be—"

* * *

The school bus trundled along the highway to Springfield, its aging suspension struggling with the winding asphalt roads. Inside, the engine's grumble was nearly drowned out by eager, animated voices: forty teenage boys about to miss _an entire day_ of school.

"Guys, we need a plan," Joe said urgently.

"Do we?" Cary asked, leaning on the seat behind him.

"Yes!"

"We never had one before and it went OK."

"This is different. It's not gonna be easy." He exhaled, gazing out the window. Next to him, Charles unzipped his schoolbag and pulled out a black piece of fabric. It appeared to be a balaclava.

"What's that for?" Martin asked.

"Hiding my face, dummy. From security cameras and stuff."

"Charles, if anyone sees you wearing that they're going to tackle you to the floor."

"Come on guys, focus!" Joe muttered. "Our plan: what is it?"

"Well," Charles said slowly, "I thought we were going to go on the base tour with everyone else, see what's up, and then sneak off when we get a break for lunch or something. We can't make a plan when we don't know what's there yet." He slipped the balaclava back into his bag. Behind them, Cary extracted his set of lockpicks from a hidden pocket and tapped Martin on the shoulder.

Preston's eyes narrowed. " _Please_ tell me no one brought a knife."

Martin froze, a little guiltily.

"Are you _kidding_ me? Who're you going to stab?"

"Nobody! It's a pocketknife, I'm using it for the screwdriver!"

"Fine," Preston retorted. "But for the record, I also think 'wait and see' isn't an ideal strategy."

"Very constructive," Charles replied.

"Hey – if you give Joe and me a chance we might be able to come up with something better…"

The bus crested a hill and began descending the far side, brakes squealing as the driver tried to keep it under sixty miles an hour. Early morning light scattered across the forest, through leaves and branches and fading mists until it fell upon the stark, concrete acreage of the Springfield military base.

The base was vast, a scar on the landscape. Grey. Flat. Artificial. Its entrance was rapidly approaching, a heavy gate topped with barbed wire guarded by a half-dozen sentries. As Joe watched, a single, sleek air force jet left the nearest runway, skimming along the treetops before spearing into the sky. The sound reached his ears a second later – a distant, unearthly shriek that made something inside him quiver. Soon enough it disappeared, a speck lost in the blue.

Before he knew it the bus had rolled to a stop. A guard stepped forwards to talk to the driver while others waited, weapons at the ready. The gates slid open.

_We'll be safe. I promise._

* * *

Back at school, things were much less exciting. This was because their history teacher had a distinctive way of sucking the fun out of things, usually via the application of far too many worksheets.

Like this one, for instance, about the entrance of Japan into World War 2. Alice sighed. Theoretically, the World Wars should've been a super interesting topic, but the endless videos and essay questions were already lulling her to sleep; probably would've already, except for the slight knot of worry in her stomach.

She glanced over at Rachel, sitting at the desk to her right. "Hey," she whispered.

The girl looked up, eyes dark. She was wearing a faded purple t-shirt and jeans, her olive skin a little more drawn than usual.

"I was wondering… did they teach you any of this in Japan?"

"I left in primary school before they could," Rachel murmured. "I moved a long time ago."

"Oh. It'd be interesting to see if the schools have a different perspective there."

"They do, I think. They teach war as a mistake, but… remove a lot of Japan's responsibility." Coolly, she turned back to her work. Alice noticed that Rachel was gripping her pen rather tightly; hand steady, knuckles white. The tip rasped across the paper.

"Did something happen?" Alice asked quietly.

"No."

"You seem nervous."

"I'm not. Are you?"

Alice blushed. _I probably look worse. Maybe we both had trouble sleeping._ She realised that she was tapping her foot on the carpet, forced herself to stop. And, suddenly, the teacher's voice from the front of the classroom—

"Miss Dainard, is there something you'd like to share with the class?"

"No, Mr. Collins. Sorry."

Sighing inwardly, she focused on her worksheet, wondering what the heck the boys were up to.

* * *

_Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting…_

Joe realised that he was tapping his foot on the concrete, forced himself to stop. He couldn't help feeling anxious. After arriving at the gates they'd been taken to some kind of entrance hall – a big, echoing, aluminium-walled box, with a guard at the desk who kept shooting them suspicious glances – to presumably be picked up by someone who actually knew what to do with forty teenagers at an army base. A buzz of conversation bounced around the room, mixing with the hum of the fluorescent lights above, and the huddle of students stayed unusually close together – some excited, some bored, five of them strangely worried. _All of a sudden, now that we're here, messing around doesn't seem like such a great idea anymore. I wonder if we'll see the white room where they kept questioning us. I wonder if we'll run into Lieutenant Forman_ —

A woman emerged from the doors at the far end, holding a clipboard and wearing a navy blue business dress. She immediately made a beeline for their teacher and after a brief, muffled conversation involving lots of sharp gestures, she called out above the noise.

"Hello! You are the students from Lillian High School, correct? I was told that you're here for a tour of our facility, and to see exactly how _dedicated_ our servicemen are to protecting you from threats both near and far. The answer is very! Now, there's a lot I can show you, so we'd better get started – please follow me, stay close, and don't touch anything!"

* * *

The tarmac around the aircraft hangar was featureless and flat, radiating the early morning sun. To the left, a runway stretched endlessly into the distance, leading past sheds, control towers, checkpointed guard posts – all made from the same forest-camouflaged steel. Before them, looming menacingly in the gloom of the hangar was a brand new F-15 _Eagle_ strike fighter, its conical nose and swept-back wings a streamlined picture of lethality.

"How much do you think one of these aircraft costs?" their guide asked, turning to the assembled tour group (most of whom were pretty excited about seeing a fighter jet up close).

One boy raised his hand. "A million bucks!"

"Close, but no. Just one F-15 is twenty million dollars."

" _Ooooh."_

_"Woah."_

"Unfortunately, that means none of you are ever likely to own one, no matter how hard you beg Saint Nick. However, I _can_ tell you that it has a maximum speed of Mach 2.5 – that's 1600 miles an hour – and can fly from here to Russia in three hours flat, carrying a payload of…"

The guide chattered on, running through a range of facts and figures. Her name was Janet and she was actually fairly interesting; Joe found himself getting caught up in her enthusiasm. _She clearly isn't part of the army… must be from another agency._ He peered above the kids in front of him and saw another plane a few yards behind, being worked on by an engineer in orange overalls. A jeep rumbled past to the rear, loaded with marines. Whatever else, the base was busy, almost like its own miniature town.

"Pretty cool, right?" Charles whispered in his ear.

"Yeah, definitely."

And so it went. One hour passed as they were taken from place to place, then two. There was the barracks with its dorms of identical bunks, the armoury with its racks of identical weapons, the radar room which looked like something straight out of a movie. A grumpy-faced marine demonstrated how to fire an obscenely loud machine gun. Another officer showed them historical equipment from the First and Second World Wars.

It was very 'nice', Joe thought to himself. Very controlled. Nothing like experiencing all that power for real, with soldiers running through the streets and artillery firing at the sky.

* * *

"And this," Janet announced grandly, "is what we call the CIC, or Combat Information Center. This is where the magic happens – as it were."

They filed into a large, brightly-lit room. It was divided into sections by four rows of desks; some had TV screens and intimidating control panels built in, with knobs and switches and blinking lights, while others were scattered with pencils and graph paper. Live images were being projected onto the front wall – a map of the world, a grainy camera feed – either side of a sagging American flag. The roof was dotted with dozens of air-conditioning vents that kept the room at a brisk chill. Maybe ten people were currently working inside, heads down at their desks.

"In crisis situations, military movements across the entire country can be monitored from this room. So if America _was_ attacked, this is where you'd want to be." Janet winked. "Not that you'd be allowed in, obviously. But, being able to have a strategic overview of an operation is vital for a commander and usually, information is gathered here and passed on different locations."

Joe glanced around. _If everything comes through this room, maybe there's something we can use? But it'd be impossible to find without being noticed. And surely they can't keep everything in here… there must be an archive room or something, a place we haven't seen yet._ He saw Charles shrug out of the corner of his eye, probably having a similar thought.

"Oh! Hello." Their guide paused as a pair of researchers skirted past them – a man and a woman, dressed in freshly-cleaned lab coats. "Dr. Phillips, Ms. Soderling. Do you have a minute? Perhaps you'd like to explain to these students what you do."

The man briefly considered ignoring them, then stopped. He had a weathered, lined face, in contrast to the woman's more youthful appearance, and his voice was friendly. "Sure thing. Where are they from?"

"Lillian."

A slightly raised eyebrow. "I see. Well, I'm responsible for conducting performance tests of new military equipment, along with my able assistant. Did you seen the F-15s outside?"

They nodded.

"I was involved with designing the electronic control systems – fun job, right? It's a great machine, we're very proud of it. And if you guys work hard, and go to a good college, you could do something just as cool. Like my associate, for instance – Mirka recently graduated from the University of Pennsylvania. She's working on power testing."

The woman gave them a brief smile. She was quite young, Joe noticed, definitely under thirty.

"A lot of interesting stuff goes on here," the doctor continued, "and It's unfortunate I can't show you any of it because I'm supposed to be in a meeting—"

"Of course. Thank you Dr. Phillips, I'm sure you're very busy. If the rest of you will follow me…"

They moved onwards, walking down the central aisle of the information center. The doctor and his assistant disappeared through a side door as Joe kept his eye out for any vaguely suspicious materials. _It's difficult when you don't know what you're searching for, though_. Their guide had a seemingly infinite memory for names and gave each person a nod of acknowledgement as they passed. "Captain Edmeades… Sergeant Talty… Mr. Yukimura…"

The last name belonged to an intelligence officer, dark suit matching dark eyes, and for some reason it made something twitch in Joe's brain. _Déjà vu?_

It appeared the feeling was mutual. As the man strode past, he met Joe's gaze for the briefest of instants, a slight frown on his face.

* * *

They stopped for lunch on top of the base's observation tower. From the outside it appeared similar to an air traffic control tower, except inside, instead of being filled with screens and terminals, it was vacant and mostly unused. Scruffy chairs and empty cabinets lay on the dust-slicked floor, remnants of busier times. What it _did_ have was an excellent view of the entire complex – the tower stood at the very center, emerging from the roof of the main administration building. Students pressed up against its wide, tinted windows, pointing curiously at various landmarks and the town of Springfield in the distance.

Joe had never really considered it before but the base was rather… large. It must've stretched for at least a mile in every direction, dirt and concrete dotted with dozens of structures, and they hadn't even come remotely close to the building where they'd had their 'interrogations' – that was a low, bunker-like complex on the far side by the fence. _This isn't just a military base. It can't be. There has to be other stuff going on here. Underground, behind locked doors…_ He turned in a slow circle, trying to memorise the general layout.

To the south, the main runways: attack jets and transport planes parked in a neat grid. Several large helipads. To the east, the vehicle hangars: huge sheds with curving rooves, containing jeeps and trucks and whatever else. Westward was a range of different areas – the armoury, training grounds, the main barracks – and north was utilities: water pipelines and radio receivers and a small, buzzing power station. Below them in the middle was the main complex: a four-story building filled with offices, meeting rooms and mysteries.

Of course, they hadn't seen any mysteries yet. No opportunities to sneak away. _We were so_ optimistic _that this trip would lead to something useful. So naïve, maybe. As if we stand a chance in a place like this._ Sighing, he trudged back to the middle of the observation deck, where the others were gathered in a hushed circle.

"You see anything?" Charles asked.

"No. And I'm starting to think we won't."

"Aww, don't be sad," Cary said. "Because guess what? I'm rescuing us. Again." With a flourish he whipped a lanyard from his pocket, dangling it in front of their eyes. Clipped to the end was some kind of keycard.

They stared at it for a stunned second.

"Are you kidding me?" Preston asked. "You swiped someone's keys?"

"Yep," he replied proudly.

"Where? How?"

"From that doctor guy who talked to us, in the room with all the screens. It was super easy. He should've been paying more attention."

"Lucky he wasn't," Joe murmured. "What's it say?"

Cary peered at the card's smooth white surface. "The label says 'Argus Laboratory 2'."

"Shit! That's it!" Charles exclaimed.

"Shh, keep it _down_."

"…Sorry." He looked around guiltily. "But Argus, that's what we're looking for, isn't it? How long do we have left for lunch?"

Joe glanced at his watch. "'bout thirty minutes."

"That's enough time. Gives us half an hour before the teacher starts wondering we are. There's one problem though."

"What?"

"Where the hell's the lab? The guide never showed us one."

"Oh, that's easy," Preston said. "I saw a sign."

"Where?"

"This building, third floor near the stairs. Were none of you paying attention?"

Cary rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me. C'mon, let's go. The toilet's downstairs, no one'll care if we leave."

Martin paused, sandwich half-way to his mouth. "…Now?"

"Yes, now."

"But I'm hungry—"

"You're the one who wanted to get us here!"

"Doesn't mean we can't finish our lunch."

"Ugh, just take it with you! We can eat on the way!"

"…Fine."

One by one, they grabbed their backpacks and made their way to the tower stairs. Everyone else was too busy staring out the windows to pay them much attention. As they tiptoed downwards, Martin munching on his sandwich, Cary clutching the keycard like a talisman, Joe felt the adrenaline begin to flood through his veins.

_Are we really about to rob a military base?_

_Yes. Yes, we're about to rob a military base._

* * *

'" _What did they want? That's a good question." Ms. Soderling smiles, though I'm unsure why. "Perhaps they were looking for more territory. Perhaps they wanted to control us. Perhaps they were so advanced, so technologically developed they didn't even consider us sentient. Perhaps this was simply a misunderstanding."_

_She trails off, glancing at my pen for a moment as I scribble down her words._

_"Perhaps," she continues eventually, "we shouldn't presume to give a reason at all. Their species was not of this world. They don't think like us. They don't behave like us. How can we even attempt to explain their actions? It would be like your dog trying to understand why you're interviewing me now. It is beyond our comprehension."'_

**_\- An extract from 'The True War of the Worlds', published in 1988 by Adrian Polansky_ **

* * *

They waited at the bottom of the tower staircase, stacked up on either side of the door: Charles and Joe on the left, Cary, Martin and Preston on the right. On the other side was a hallway. Whether it was empty was another question entirely.

"Who's going first?" Cary whispered.

They all looked at him.

"You guys are dicks."

Slowly, he reached for the door handle; pushed it open a couple of inches. A crack of light fell through the gap and he peered down the corridor. A moment passed. Then he opened the door further and stuck his head through, looking in the other direction.

"Clear."

Quickly, quietly, they stepped out into the hallway. It was relatively featureless, white walls and grey carpet, running along the northern side of the admin building's top floor. Fluorescent lights – those standard white tubes you saw in offices everywhere – were spaced regularly along the ceiling. Every ten metres was a bland beige door.

"Which way?" Charles asked.

"Down the hall, then left," Preston replied. "We need to find the stairs. The lab's on the floor below us."

"Okay." They hurried in the direction Preston had indicated, Cary in the lead, Joe bringing up the rear. _Don't stop to think about what you're doing. Don't hesitate._ They kept low, feet scraping on the carpet. A couple of the rooms had small observation windows but it was easy enough to duck past. Soon, they came to the T-junction at the end of the corridor.

"Left?" Cary asked.

"Left."

Cary poked his head round the corner, then immediately jerked back like a startled rabbit. "Back back back!" he hissed. "There's a guy coming."

"What kind of guy?"

"Dunno. I don't think he saw me."

"Come on, in here." Charles pushed them into an alcove a few metres from the junction; it was a small kitchenette with a fridge and water fountain. They huddled out of sight, pressed against the wall.

 _This part of the base just looks like offices_ , Joe thought. _Ordinary..._ _innocent._ He could hear footsteps, coming closer. Fast. Barely a minute, and his mouth was already dry as sandpaper. He licked his lips, wiped away trickle of sweat. The steps grew louder, louder – then softer, skipping the junction and continuing down the corridor. They waited a minute longer till the sound had disappeared; then emerged from their hiding place and rounded the corner.

Whoever Cary had seen was gone. The hallway was empty, similar to the last.

"There's the sign," Preston murmured. "See?" He pointed at a bright plastic board as they passed. _'Data Stations,'_ it said first, then _'Cryptography'_ , then _'Laboratories',_ with a helpful arrow pointing down at the floor below.

At the end of the hall was another door. Behind this one was a stairwell. They waited upon the threshold for a moment, listening for any sound of footsteps, of conversation.

Nothing.

They slipped through the doorway, which made a far-too-loud _squeak!_ Martin ran to the railing and glanced up, then down but apparently the stairs were deserted. _Lucky,_ Joe thought. The stairwell appeared to be a less-used route and had floors of bare, dusty concrete. The only light came via a tall, grimy window, revealing blue skies and the black runway tarmac. _No time to look though._ "Down we go," Charles muttered, voice echoing from the walls. He kept one hand on the railing, felt the cold metal slip beneath his fingers.

"Where _is_ everyone?" Joe asked under his breath. "This place is empty."

"Having lunch, probably," Martin replied, "like we're supposed be doing."

Charles grimaced. "Don't jinx it."

A few metres below was the door to Level Three. In what was becoming a familiar routine, they lined up on either side, Cary peeking through the small glass window.

"It's… another corridor," he said slowly. "Carpet 'n' stuff. Except there's a camera this time."

"Security camera?"

"Yeah."

"Where is it?" Martin asked.

"Far end. There's a room, and it's kinda pointing from there at us down the corridor. It's moving though, it's – it's turning from side to side." He stepped back with a nervous glance. "We shouldn't let it see us, right?"

"Yeah, definitely. We don't know who's watching." Martin frowned. "Are there other doors in the hallway?"

"Yeah, every few yards."

"OK. Then we wait till the camera's not looking, run as far as we can, then duck into a room before it sees us. Repeat until we get past it."

"No way," Preston said firmly.

"Why?"

"Because we don't know what's _in_ those rooms. We could accidentally open the door to a general's office, or a room full of soldiers."

"We'll have to risk it," Martin muttered. He squinted down the hallway, then at his feet. Took a quick breath. There was a strange look in his eyes, like the expression Charles usually had when he was about to—

"Come on!" He barged through the door and started sprinting down the corridor.

Charles blinked. "Martin, what the HELL—"

"Shhh!" Preston hissed.

They didn't have a choice. They dashed after him as fast as they dared, skidding on the carpet, clumsily trying to stay quiet. Joe could barely see the camera Cary had spotted, a tiny black dot that was a blur as he ran. Charles' jacket flapped behind out him. _How long have we got?_ _Surely it's—_

"Crap! In here, quick!" Martin cursed and grabbed the nearest doorhandle.

Locked.

" _Crap!_ " He leaped across the corridor and tried the next one down. This one _did_ open and he fell inside, not even pausing to check if the room was occupied. It was too late anyway; the rest of them were already following him in, pushing, shoving, trying to squeeze through the doorway. Cary yelped as he tripped on Preston's ankle, smacking unpleasantly into the floor.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

"Did it see us?"

"…Probably not?"

Joe exhaled, heart hammering in his chest, and turned to gaze at the room they found themselves in. It was dark. _Empty, thank god._ The only light came in through the still-open door (which hopefully no one would notice), and it appeared to be an office of some kind, walls lined with filing cabinets, blinds drawn. The wide desk was covered in a fine layer of dust.

Cary wiped himself off and glared at Martin. "That was stupid."

"Well… it worked, didn't it?" he said defensively.

"Yeah, but it was stupid. And usually you hate this stuff - why are _you_ the reckless one all of a sudden?"

"Because it was my idea to come, you know. I feel like I'm responsible."

"That doesn't explain anything!"

Martin shrugged. "Doesn't it?"

"Eugh, whatever." Cary rolled his eyes. "Then what's next, genius?"

"Easy. We wait for the camera to turn, then—"

_"Hey, Adam. You in there?"_

They froze.

_"I thought you were still on vacation!"_

A new voice, adult, coming from outside. It sounded unconcerned. It also sounded _close._ Quickly, their eyes darted around the deserted office, searching for places to hide. Cary pointed wordlessly at the filing cabinets; there was space among them at the back of the room where a few people could probably fit. _Probably._

Charles went first. He sucked in his stomach and squeezed behind the cabinets, inching along so that he was out of sight of the doorway. Then Martin.

" _Move_ , Charles! Further!"

"I'm trying!"

Preston leapt over the desk and ducked beneath it, hidden by the wooden backboard. Joe and Cary headed for the other side and jammed themselves between another set of filing cabinets, Cary crouching in a ball, Joe almost sitting on top of him. Something bony dug into his leg. It was a tight fit but it'd have to do.

There was a slight squeak as the door swung open; a few footsteps as someone walked into the empty office. Joe held his breath while the others did the same. His leg twitched.

"Adam?" the voice asked, shockingly clear.

_Crap. What are they gonna do if someone finds us?_

"Hello? Anyone in here?"

More footsteps.

 _It couldn't be anything THAT bad, could it? We're just kids… or maybe they don't care._ Some of Lieutenant Forman's threats sprang into his mind unbidden. He shivered. Across from him, he saw Martin and Charles squatting in their hiding spot. Charles' gaze briefly met his, and despite everything, he was grinning nervously.

"Huh. Maybe Sam needed some of his files." The voice sighed. "Should tell him to keep the door locked. Ah, well. I was kinda looking forward to seeing that bastard."

More grumbling. After a long, uncomfortable moment, the footsteps retreated.

 _Click!_ The door shut.

Joe let out an explosive breath. "Oh, _man_."

"Joe, get off me. This hurts."

"Oh. Sorry." He extracted himself from the gap and hopped out into the open, took Cary's hand and pulled him free as well.

The smaller boy winced, cracking his shoulders. "You should probably lose some weight."

"You should probably grow some muscles."

" _Hooooly_ crap," Martin said. "That was close."

"You don't need to tell me," Charles replied. He tiptoed to the newly-locked door. "You guys ready? We still have to sneak past the camera. It'll be a piece of cake after _that,_ though."

Against all odds, it was. They jogged down the corridor while the camera was pointed the other way, and it buzzed and whirred as they passed under it and into the next section. Here was a second _'Laboratories'_ sign: this time the arrow pointed to the left, into yet another long hallway (one among countless others, it seemed). The building was a labyrinth of identical arrow-straight corridors.

Then, there was a problem.

"There's a guard," Cary whispered. "She's sitting behind a desk."

"…She?"

"Fine, I guess it's more of a receptionist. She's not looking, but we can't really dodge past her."

"Why?"

"There's two doors next to her and one of 'em leads to the labs. She'll see us as soon as walk out."

Martin let out a weary sigh. "We _have_ to be getting close. Any ideas?"

Charles paused with a speculative look. "One, maybe." He took a quarter from his pocket.

"What's that for?"

"You'll see. Does the room have a window?"

Cary peered past the bend. "...Yes," he said eventually.

"Okay, great. I'll break the window, the guard'll be distracted, then we run past. Easy-peasy"

Preston raised his hand. "But— hmm. Hmm, that _might_ work. Cary, where exactly is this door?"

"Right-hand side, opposite the window. Guys, we'd better hurry, someone else'll come past pretty soon."

"That's true. Yeah, let's try it."

"Alright." Charles edged forwards. "Ready?"

They nodded, senses on high alert. The world was sharper, brighter than usual. Every sound made hairs shiver on Joe's neck. _I can't believe we're doing this. I can't believe were STILL doing this. Martin, seriously, this was a really dodgy idea—_

Charles leaned around the corner and pegged the quarter hard as he could, at the window on the far side of the room. It flashed through the air for half a second before – _CRACK!_ – it speared into the glass, piercing right through. A shower of shattered silver burst outward, the window's entire top half collapsing into nothing.

"Ohmygosh! What the—"

Cary kept watch while some very confused noises emanated from the nearby room. The others prepared themselves, ready to run; then, a thumbs-up as he disappeared around the bend.

They followed, quick and silent, one after the other. Joe caught a brief glimpse of a large, carpeted reception area, chairs along the outside wall, a counter at the far end and a newly-broken window behind it. The receptionist was staring at the mess, unmoving, blissfully unaware of the five kids creeping past her back. Joe did his best to stay low but felt awfully exposed. At any time the woman could turn and it'd be impossible to miss what was happening…

But she didn't. A sigh of relief. Five seconds later they were out of sight, into the next area. For once it wasn't a hallway. It almost looked like some kind of warehouse. The room was large, twenty yards a side, packed tight with long, towering shelves and stacked with crates and equipment. The ceiling was bare, exposed piping and electrical conduits crossing from side to side.

There was a second exit at the other end. Cary lay down, checking under the shelves for any conspicuous pairs of boots.

"Empty, I think," he whispered.

They started walking. Joe tried to imagine where they were, remembering the route they'd taken so far. It was difficult. _Lots of turns. I have NO idea how we're getting out of here._ He glanced at the shelves as they passed, trying to read the labels on the boxes. Most of it was old electrical equipment. Others were archived records. A rattling hum filled the air: the buzz of an old, struggling air conditioner. More signs indicated that the laboratories were just past the storage room. _Say what you want about the army, at least they're good at labelling things._

Soon, they came to a gate. The warehouse was split in half by metal bars, creating a floor-to-ceiling fence across its entire width, and a swing-gate in the middle was the only way past. Inconveniently (but expectedly) it was locked tight.

Charles yanked the bars. The gate rattled on its hinges. "Damn."

Suddenly, Joe heard a tapping noise behind them. He whirled around.

 _There was someone coming towards them._ A shape, walking along the aisles. Green camouflage. "Guys, look!"

Charles' eyes widened. He tried the gate again. Still didn't budge. The shape hadn't seen them yet, was simply making its way along the left side of the room, but soon…

"We have to _go!_ " Preston hissed.

"No! Wait!" Cary reached into his pocket, pulled out his stolen keycard. "This might open it."

"Then _hurry_!"

"I'm hurrying." Cary took the card, and – dropped it. "Shit!" It skidded away along the concrete. He jumped forwards and grabbed it again, fingers shivering. The shape was almost in view. Definitely a soldier, Joe realised, but strangely enough, he could hear the man whistling. _Of course, nobody wouldn't actually_ expect _to find five high-schoolers in here._

_Oh man. What are we doing. WHAT ARE WE DOING—_

Cary swiped the keycard through a groove in the lock. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

 _Beep!_ The lock clicked, blinked green. Charles grabbed the gate and swung it open fast as he dared, ushering them through with a panicked stare. He didn't bother to close it and raced after the others, Cary leading the way between the next set of shelves. Joe wiped his hands on his jeans. The exit at the far end beckoned, as did the laboratories beyond it. _Too close. Almost there. Almost there. C'mooon..._

Then, because the universe has a cruel sense of cosmic irony, three more soldiers chose that exact moment to emerge from the passageway to the lab. Joe immediately ducked behind a crate, the others swiftly following suit.

 _Okay. Stay calm. Don't panic._ Cautiously, he leaned sideways to get a better view. The guards were walking down the perimeter of the storage room, making their way towards the row where Joe and the others were hiding. Behind them, in the opposite direction, the single soldier was still approaching the open gate. _We're c_ _aught between them like rats in a trap. There has to be a way to slip past somehow… maybe if we wait till they're close, we can sneak the other way._

 _Okay, that works. Deep breaths._ He stared at Charles, Cary, Martin, Preston, then mouthed silently, ' _Follow me_ '.

Cary shrugged.

Preston swallowed.

Martin looked like he regretted finishing his lunch.

Charles touched his shoulder, and gave a slight nod.

 _Thanks._ Warily, Joe poked his head out of cover again. The soldiers were close, and they'd be able to see 'em in about ten seconds, but next to their hiding spot was a gap in the shelf which they could use to slip stealthily into the next row. _Five, four, three, two—_

He slithered quickly into the gap and out the other side, the rumble of the air conditioner loud enough to mask the noise. Charles came through next, almost catching his jumper on a nail, then the rest a moment later, wriggling awkwardly. They barely made it before the trio of guards turned into the aisle they'd just been hiding in; Joe quietly side-stepped along the shelf so that they were hidden by another large box. _Now, we wait here for a second._

They crouched down, silent as statues, backs pressed to the wood. The footsteps grew louder. The guards were chatting in gruff voices but he couldn't quite distinguish the words.

"— _problem with the security cameras—"_

_"—maintenance gear—"_

There were more scraping noises, then a loud grunt as someone lifted something off a shelf. It sounded close, the guards not more than a couple of yards away. More grunting.

_"This the one?"_

_"Yeah, that's it. Should be another in here too. We'll have to search for it."_

The footsteps receded.

Joe stole another peek at the soldiers. Two of them were walking to the right, their backs to him, one carrying a metal toolbox. The other was going left. Hopefully they'd move towards the middle of the room, leaving the exit passageway clear. _Now, we wait some more._

Distant footsteps. More chatter.

When Joe checked the room again, he couldn't spot any uniforms. "Let's go," he whispered. "Stay as low as you can."

They emerged and crouch-ran along the aisle, keeping quiet, moving fast. _Have to be quick._ Joe was first to the end of the row and suddenly realised he must've misjudged it, because unexpectedly one of the soldiers was standing _right there_ to his left – next to the wall, pistol in his belt – facing away from them by some unknown miracle. The surprise almost made Joe's heart explode and he had to stop himself from tripping over his own feet. _Crap crap crap_ _—_ he somehow managed to stop, frozen, then turn in the right direction without making too much noise, slinking along the wall in the opposite direction. He didn't even stop to check if the others were following; just kept going until he could skirt around a crate out of sight. _A conga-line of creeping students. We have to look ridiculous._

Ridiculous or not, they all made it to the exit. No raised voices. No shouts of alarm. The passage to the lab was barred with another gate which Cary made quick work of – not fumbling the key this time – and they darted onwards.

The rest of the corridor was empty, apart from a second security camera. So was the room at the end. And in it – finally – a thick, solid hunk of steel – was the entrance to Argus Lab Two.

Martin stepped forwards. He gazed at the door with uneasy silence, a mixture of relief and apprehension.

"Well, _that_ was nervewracking," Preston said.

"Understatement of the year," Cary replied.

_And now the real work begins._

* * *

Due to an entire gender of the class being absent, their science teacher had essentially given up on doing work, and dumped a whole bunch of random activities on the bench which they could fiddle with as they pleased. For Alice, this was a collection of Lego bricks, which she was currently trying to snap together into a sturdy bridge (the goal, apparently, was to make it support fifty pounds). For Rachel, this was a circuit board, some wires and a handful of tiny components, which would – once completed – create a simple doorbell. She grabbed a resistor of the required colour and carefully slotted it into the board, connecting it in parallel with a nine-volt battery.

It was fiddly work. Alice gave Rachel a sidelong glance, watching as she picked through components."You look like you know what you're doing," she murmured.

"Yeah. I used to have tons of these kits when I was younger."

"Really? What sort of stuff did you make?"

"Clocks, alarms, radios, lamps… Like everything, it's not difficult once you figure out how each part works." Rachel slid another wire in place, pinching it between her fingernails. "It's a hobby," she explained. "I've had lots of practice."

"Sure, that makes sense." Alice glanced down at her bridge which seemed childish in comparison. "Unfortunately, my hobbies aren't really… scienc-y." _I mean - Joe has his models, Charles has movies, Martin is surprisingly great at drawing, and I… write. Proooobably a bit less useful than knowing how to fix circuits._

The rest of the class focused intently on their activities, mixing liquids and testing magnets and who knew what else. In the meantime, their teacher sat quietly behind her desk, grimly marking last night's homework. Alice's bridge was slowly taking shape, and she pressed another beam into place to form a triangular truss. _Actually, you know what'd be cool? If this bridge was secretly a_ draw _bridge_. _I wonder if I could make it lift up on hinges._ She spread out the remaining pieces on her bench.

"So I don't wanna bug you, but – I had another question."

Rachel smiled faintly. "It's fine. Bug away."

"Thanks, haha. Because the thing is… I _really_ want to go to Japan."

"Why's that?"

"I'm not sure. It just seems like a really cool place, from movies and books and stuff, you know? Temples, cities, mountains, cherry blossoms… and since you're from there, I thought you'd know all sorts of neat stuff."

Rachel rolled her eyes.

Alice laughed. "What?"

"The cherry blossoms _are_ nice, but they last for literally a week. That's it. Although, yes, from the outside, it is a beautiful country."

"That's good to hear. Would've shattered my illusions otherwise. Why'd you move, then?"

"My father's work, mainly. When he started consulting for the CIA on projects, it was easier if I went with him."

"Must've been a big change."

"Yes."

"Ever been back?"

A slight hesitation before she answered. "No."

"Why?" Alice asked curiously. "You did like it there, right?"

"I…" Rachel pressed her lips together, considering her answer. "I did, yes. But even with all the good parts, there were some bad parts as well. Most of the time I'm glad I'm living here now. I'm sorry, I can't tell you much more."

 _Can't? Or won't?_ It was weird, how the question had made her react; her voice brimming with hidden steel. But Alice didn't want to press. _We all have things we're running from._ Concentrating, Rachel attached a switch to her circuit, testing it with a _click_. Alice dug through her collection of pieces to find another Technic pin.

Suddenly, Rachel paused, mouth half-open as if to say something. "I… don't remember much, but what I do remember is the seasons," she said. "Different colours. Different scents. In winter, the snow on Mount Fuji. In Spring - yes - the clouds full of cherry blossoms. In summer, wearing kimonos at the night festivals. In Autumn, fishing on the river." She blinked. "What about you? Do you like living here?"

"Uh – yeah, I suppose." _Is that the first time she's asked me a real question?_ "It's nice, most of the time. In its own way. Lillian's a small town obviously, so sometimes it's a little boring. Having friends makes it fun, though."

"I see."

Alice realised she wasn't being entirely honest; for a long time, _'it wasn't nice'_ would've been more the accurate answer. _And the best way to get to know someone is to trust them with the truth, even if is a little unpleasant._

"I used to hate it," she continued quietly.

Rachel looked up, surprised.

"There were problems. With family stuff."

"What… kind?"

"The usual kind. The kind you'd see every night on a TV show and never think twice about. When it's happening to you, though, it's…" She trailed off. "Mostly, I used to hate it here because Lillian _was_ so small. Everyone knew about everyone else, so everyone knew about everyone else's problems. They'd walk past you on the street with fake looks on their faces, all this false sympathy; and you could never escape, because there was nowhere to hide. I wasn't happy, so – I used to pretend a lot. Pretend I was okay. I never wanted to complain, so I just stayed quiet and put up with it. It's much better now though." _Now, I don't have to pretend anymore._

There was something odd in Rachel's eyes – a look, that seemed to say _'I know what you mean.'_ A look that spoke of shared experience and hardships, like the one that sometimes flickered over Joe's face when he thought he was alone. _Maybe I'm just imagining it._ _Or maybe not._ _We all have things we're running from._ She turned a Lego brick over and over between her fingers, feeling the studs on the smooth red plastic.

"I think I used to be like you," Alice said eventually. "Well, sort of. Don't take this the wrong way."

"I won't. Probably."

"For a long time, this wasn't me," she explained. "I used to be quieter. I kept to myself a lot. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but… I thought being independent was everything. That I couldn't rely on other people. I feel like… you could maybe identify with that."

"Perhaps."

Rachel's mind skipped back over months, years, the words burned into her mind. _Be prepared,_ her father murmured. _Be prepared, l_ _earn to survive._ _You_ _can trust no one._

_Only you._

"There is one thing I did notice," Rachel said.

"What?"

"You don't talk to the other girls very much. Not as much as I expected."

Alice glanced round. "I guess not."

"Don't take _this_ the wrong way, but I thought you'd be more popular."

"Haha, sure. Well, I was friends with them. I still am, I suppose. But after I got to know Charles and the others, it's been kinda hard to hang out with both groups at the same time." She grinned. "And hey, _you're_ a girl. That counts."

"Yes, although—"

"What I'm trying articulate is, somehow, you're different… in a good way. You're easy to deal with – does that make sense? I mean, I get this feeling you don't really care what I say."

"Nope." Rachel shrugged.

"See? That's nice to have. Even with Joe, I can't totally be myself _all_ the time." Alice trailed off, a slight frown on her face.

For her part, Rachel kept her expression neutral. She folded her arms, the circuit half-finished on the desk. She was vaguely unsure of how a simple science class had led to their conversation but it wasn't the worst feeling in the world; in fact, she was more intrigued than anything else. ' _I get this feeling you don't really care what I say'… I mean, I_ don't _, really. I've learned to judge people on much more than that, like what they actually_ do.

_Of course, that's never stopped other people from caring._

_People usually say I'm difficult; that they don't know what I'm thinking. They don't like that. They say it makes them uncomfortable. So then, it becomes easier to forget about the people. Becomes easier to say nothing at all. Sometimes I walk through life, pretending to be real. Pretending to smile. Sad thing is, most of the time it works – I guess it did for both of us, once._

_Maybe we were similar… except one of us got better._

"How did you get to know them?" Rachel asked.

"The guys? By chance, mostly. I didn't pay attention to them at first. I thought they were, you know, just another group of icky boys. Then Charles asked me to be in his movie, like, completely out of the blue, and for some reason I said yes, maybe 'cause it _was_ so unexpected. And Charles has this way of convincing people, haha. Why did you agree to help?"

"Uh, same. Charles… has this way of convincing people."

"Yep! And Joe can be like that, too." She smiled. "I was gonna back out after the first night, but Joe asked me to stay _very_ nicely."

 _Speaking of:_ "You like Joe, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"You _like_ like Joe."

"I guess."

"I mean, he's your boyfriend."

"Ugh. Sure. I kinda hate the label though." She ground her teeth. "Sorry, but the other girls were _way_ too obsessed with the whole girlfriend-boyfriend thing."

"I know the feeling. He seems nice, though."

"So you approve."

"…Yes?"

"Good." Alice's eyes twinkled mischievously. She attached another brick to her bridge, which was getting stronger and stronger. "As long as you aren't jealous."

"I—"

"Kidding. Alright, now you asked me so I get to ask you: any broken hearts littering your past?"

"Nope."

"Not even one?"

"Nope."

"Fair enough."

Rachel shook her head, then turned back to her work. She added the largest component to the doorbell – the speaker – and twisted it back and forth, jamming it into the right spot. The wires formed a neat criss-cross of colour, like stitching.

Beside her, Alice wasn't paying much attention to her Lego. Instead, she wondered why she'd said everything she had; a year ago, she would never have admitted any of it _–_ not the family stuff, not the feelings stuff _–_ but there was something about this new, dark-haired girl that made her want to open up. _Why?_ _Her dad's in the CIA, it's not like we can be best friends. We can't really be friends at all._

 _It's because she seems smart_ , Alice decided. Not smart in that fancy 'Preston' sense, but more… sharp. Sensible. Somebody you _could_ trust, at least for a bit. Perhaps it was in the way she considered every single word; the way, every so often, she stared thoughtfully into the distance, a hint of sorrow on her face. _I'm probably about to make a terrible mistake. Then again..._

"Do you believe in aliens?" Alice asked.

"Yes," came the instant reply. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Is this anything to do with the rumours from a few months ago?"

 _Crap, she IS quick._ "Oh, you heard about those? Some people thought they saw a UFO fly over town. It was at the start of the holidays… one girl even said she was abducted. It sounds pretty crazy to me."

"Hm."

"I mean, there must be aliens _somewhere_ out there, but it'd be pretty weird if they came to visit Lillian of all places. Anyway, the real cause ended up being a military exercise that went wrong. There was a lot of damage, so people don't talk about it much – lots of houses got destroyed. They only just finished rebuilding most of it."

"I see," Rachel said calmly. She leaned forwards, oddly alert. "However, I was wondering about that cube we found as well."

"Wondering what?"

"What it is, for a start."

"Honestly, I have no idea." Alice paused. "Maybe you can… help with that?" _What am I saying. WHAT AM I SAYING._

"How?"

"It's, um… it's weird. I'll show you later. Maybe. Yes."

Alice picked up the completed bridge, spinning it round in her hands. The messy collection of overlapping beams seemed a delightful metaphor for her thoughts. Opposite her, Rachel added the last wire to her circuit, then pressed the switch with a single, cautious finger.

 _Ding-dong!_ An angelic chime rang out (rendered slightly less angelic by the doorbell's tinny speaker). A few of the other girls looked over curiously before returning to their projects.

"Thanks," Rachel murmured.

Alice frowned. "For what?"

"For… talking."

"Oh, no problem. Nice doorbell."

"Nice bridge." Rachel glanced at it with a wry smile; a wry, honest smile. "Looks almost strong enough to stand on."

"You wanna try it?"

"Haha, no. 'Almost'."

Alice couldn't stop herself from grinning. _A lot of the time we pretend to be real, but every now and then… something genuine breaks through._

* * *

Thirty miles south-south-eastward, five pairs of bloodshot eyes gazed grimly at the doors to the labs. There were two – Lab One on the left, Two on the right – and they were huge, thick, steel-plated slabs that would've looked more at home in a bank vault.

"Which one does the key open?" Martin asked.

"Second one," Charles replied. He paused. "Guys, there's still a problem."

"What?"

"Well, we can't just barge in there, can we – there might be people working. They'll see us soon as we walk in."

"Right," Preston said. "So we need a way to get the people in, out."

 _So close and yet so far._ Joe looked around, crossing his arms anxiously. The room they found themselves in was relatively bare, apart from a few windows and… his eyes settled on a bright red button in the corner, enclosed by a pane of glass and a simple message: _'Break glass in case of fire'_.

Cary had the same idea. "Fire alarm," he said instantly. "We set it off, everyone runs out, we run in. Simple. Although…" He froze. "…wouldn't it be better if we actually _did_ set something on fire?"

"Uh – no?" Martin suggested.

"Come _on_ , think about it. If we fake a fire alarm, we probably have ten minutes, tops before someone figures out it's bogus. If we make a _real_ fire, I can make sure it keeps 'em busy for at least half an hour."

"Won't that be hard, though?" Joe asked. "We can't take many more risks before someone catches us."

"Nah. Gimme two minutes and I'll burn the whole frickin' place down. Not that I would, obviously."

As a group, they considered this idea. Charles scratched his chin, reflecting thoughtfully on life's mysteries.

"…Two minutes?" he asked.

"Two minutes," Cary said.

"Alright. We'll go hide. You do… whatever it is you're planning to do."

* * *

Exactly thirty seconds later, Cary found what he was searching for: a utilities panel on the wall. He checked up and down the hallway, then levered it open. Inside was a tangled collection of pipes, wires and switches. _Water, oil, electricity, gas… loads of fun stuff._

Gas was the most important, for a fire. You could do a lot of damage with gas (he'd found that out the hard way, once). Electricity was pretty dangerous too, and only last week there'd been an electrical fire at the steel plant, nearly burnt down a whole section.

 _But_ smart _people learn from other people's mistakes. Why not use both?_

He took a couple of fuses from his pocket and got to work.

* * *

The others waited not inside, but out, on a thin balcony – more of a catwalk, really – than ran along the perimeter of the third floor of the administration building. _Would've made life easier if we'd seen this earlier_ , Joe thought. _At least we can use it to sneak back without being spotted._ It'd been easy to climb through a window onto the catwalk, and behind them, the southern half of the base stretched into the distance, aeroplanes and jeeps parked along the extended runways.

"I hope no one sees us up here," Martin whispered.

"We'll be fine," Charles replied. "Where the hell is Cary? It's been _way_ longer than—"

Suddenly, a loud, rising siren started to _blast_ from the building; the sound was so overwhelming that Joe had to clamp his hands over his ears. _WEEEEEEEEoooooooo… WEEEEEEEEEoooooooo…_ It echoed violently across the base, picked up and repeated by different speakers as the alarm signal spread.

"That's probably it!" Preston shouted.

"Ya think?!" Charles shot back.

Then came a figure crawling towards them along the catwalk: Cary, bearing a humongous smile. "I did it!" he said.

"Yeah, no shit!"

Cary stopped and crouched down beside them. In unison they peered through the grimy windows, watching the lab entrance closely.

And, in a nice surprise, the plan actually worked. Maybe a minute later the thick doors swung open and a group of six or seven scientists hurried out; they looked anxious, a few carrying their files and folders with them. No one noticed the hiding interlopers as they disappeared down the corridor. Joe could already smell the faint tinge of smoke. A grey cloud was slowly materialising above their heads, billowing out over the roof.

They waited a minute longer, but the lab seemed deserted.

Charles swallowed. "Time to go."

* * *

Cary slid his keycard through the lock. One, two—

_Beep!_

There was a clunk as the heavy lock rotated. Inside the building, the siren was actually quieter – still annoying, but just on the right side of 'bearable'. Joe laid his hands against the door and pulled. It swung open on perfectly-oiled hinges.

They stepped inside.

The laboratory was… gloomy. Long, low, and gloomy. Instead of the harsh white light of outside, the lab was bathed by dim blue bulbs and the static-y glow of TV screens. Wide work tables were arranged in two rows down the center. Some were covered in test tubes and dark bottles of chemicals. Some were stacked with mysterious tools and strange metal coils. Yet others held switches, dials, control panels, thick power cables connecting them on the floor. Joe had no idea what any of it was for. Blackboards were positioned at the edges of the room, the smudged chalk-marks revealing numbers, equations, symbols, letters, far more complex than anything they'd ever seen. The air smelled of antiseptic.

They walked between the tables, looking around in wonder.

"What _is_ all this stuff?" Joe asked.

"Beats me," Martin replied. He picked up a plastic sheet from a bench, held it up to the light. It appeared to be an x-ray – of what, though, it was impossible to tell.

Glass-fronted cabinets held strange objects. Heavy, industrial-looking machines hummed on either side. In one corner, a shard of rock had been mounted on a cylindrical pedestal, surrounded by spear-like magnets. Books and tools were scattered on every surface, creating the impression of a space well-used, but the white-tiled floor was very cold.

"Guess they couldn't afford heating, huh," Cary said.

"It's more like they _could_ afford super great air-conditioning. It's freezing in here," Preston grumbled. "We should split up and look around."

"Yeah." Charles nodded. "Be as fast as possible."

* * *

Martin stared at the poster, brows furrowed. He removed his glasses for a second, wiped the lenses, then placed them back on his nose. This seemed important.

He was standing before a map of the world, stuck to the wall with tape. On the map were twelve – no, thirteen pins, each one pointing at a different location. There was one in Greenland near the north pole, one near the centre of Russia, one in Japan, another in India, and—

One in Lillian. The map was too small to be absolutely certain, but it _had_ to be: one bright red pin stuck in North America, just below the Great Lakes.

Also arranged around the map were a series of black-and-white photographs. He plucked one idly from the wall, tried to figure out what it was. It appeared to show something lying in the snow; a murky, dark shape, surrounded by brilliant white. The shape looked artificial, but it was hard to determine much else. _Too blurry._ He turned the photograph over. On the back, a few sentences had been hurriedly scribbled in pencil: _'Tunguska incident. Ship fragment #3. 60.886°N, 101.894°E. 1908.'_

"Huh," he murmured.

The next photograph was a scene he recognised: the main street of Lillian, looking towards the water tower. It was covered in debris, and a wrecked tank was visible in the shot. It had to be the night they'd seen the alien leave. He turned it over. _'Lillian incident. Aftermath of escape. 40.153°N, 84.225°W. 06/07/79 0200.'_

 _Okay, this is cool._ "Hey, Charles. Look at this."

"What?"

He beckoned his friend over from where he'd been fiddling with a tape recorder. "I think this is a map of where they've found alien stuff."

Charles stared at the pins. "Woah. Really?"

"Yeah, it's not just us. It's all over the world. South America, Africa, Antarctica, Australia…"

"This is insane," Charles murmured, leaning closer. "You're sure?"

"Totally. There's photographs too, coordinates and everything. And that's not the only thing," Martin said. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. Something about the pins, and how they were arranged. "I think – I think there's a pattern."

"What kind of pattern?"

"I… don't know." _A sequence? A shape?_ He gazed at the map a moment longer, then grabbed the photographs and began slipping them into his pocket.

* * *

Across the room, Preston was doing his own thinking. The lab _was_ kinda creepy, though 'unsettling'was perhaps the better word. The cold air, the calm blue light… not knowing what any of it was made even the shadows seem mysterious. Machinery hummed in ugly harmonies beneath the distant echo of the fire siren, creating a strange, discordant song that seemed to fade in and out of the imagination.

And the screen he was staring at didn't make things better. _They tried to contact them. The fools tried to contact them._

 _But who's 'they'?_ The army computer he was using worked similarly to the Apple II his parents had back home, and he keyed carefully through the directories on the screen. Here, in the 'COMMUNICATIONS' folder, was a list a text files, each with a different, suitably intriguing name, printed in brilliant green letters.

 _argus__ s _ignal_1_data_

 _argus__ s _ignal_1_decode_

 _argus__ s _ignal_2_data_

 _argus__ s _ignal_2_decode_

_monstrum_contact_1_data_

_monstrum_contact_3_data_

He pressed enter and opened the first file. It was gibberish: a stream of characters and symbols scrolled down the screen, seemingly at random, only brief hints of legibility. He stared at it a moment longer but couldn't make any sense of it. _No luck_.

He opened the second file. This time, it was utterly empty. The cursor blinked at him from a blank screen.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Preston frowned. _Ah. I think I know what happened here. 'signal_data' must be the signals that were received directly, from… where? Who? Don't know. But the scientists couldn't understand the signals, so they tried to unscramble them in the 'signal_decode' files. And couldn't, apparently._

Preston tapped the down arrow a few times until he'd selected one of the 'contact' entries. He pressed enter. A second later, a warning message flashed upon the screen: _'DATA RESTRICTED. SEE COM TEAM FOR ACCESS.'_

"Ah, crap. That could've been really interesting."

Preston sat back on his stool for a minute, thinking. He glanced at the other computers on the desk. _Okay. So. The military received signals from something to do with Argus project – probably our alien friend a few years ago. They recorded the signal, but couldn't figure out what it meant... and then they_ _SENT signals to something else, codenamed 'monstrum'. Perhaps a different alien? A different species altogether?_ He swallowed.

' _Monstrum'. That's Latin for 'monster'._

* * *

Cary peered through the compartment's window at the strange shape nestled within. It was organic. Fleshy. About the size of an ostrich egg. The object sat in a glass dish, half-filled with murky water, and looked… dead (if it had ever been alive in the first place).

He moved onto the next compartment. There were dozens of the things, all identical, their metal enclosures stacked to form a shoulder-high wall. Each compartment had a small bulb illuminating the interior, plus a temperature control knob turned to the lowest setting. He'd tried opening one but it needed a separate key, and the locks were sealed tight.

This new box held a similar object. This time, though, it had a slightly ribbed surface, appearing more 'fresh'. Its skin was purplish-grey, cracked in several places, revealing a dark, hollow interior.

 _Maybe it IS an egg,_ Cary thought. He tapped lightly on the glass, half-expecting a response, but – nothing. He stepped sideways, whistling to himself.

Inside the next box was a cube. White, segmented, spotlessly cleaned.

He groaned. _Why do we keep running into these freaking things?_ It was exactly the same as the others they'd found, nothing to distinguish it as important. Except… lying on top of the compartment was a yellowed piece of paper. Cary picked it up and scanned its contents. _'Instructions for forcing cube response_ ,' it said. _'Step one: electric current.'_

Slowly, his mouth widened into a grin. Maybe this would be useful after all.

* * *

Joe glanced nervously at his watch. They'd been in the lab for a quarter hour already; soon it'd be time to leave if they didn't want to get caught. _Five more minutes._

Before him was a wide window into Argus Laboratory One. There wasn't another entrance, as far as he could tell, but the window at least provided a neighbouring view of the interior. At its core it appeared to be a medical facility: there were microscopes, scalpels, bags of fluid; an operating table at the centre, surrounded by hanging surgery lights; a CT scanner mounted to the side, its huge coils dormant. Every surface was coloured (or uncoloured) with the same sterile white. This lab was smaller than the other, more compact, except for a pair of wide doors at the end.

Next to the doors, on the floor, was a large brown stain. Someone had obviously attempted to clean it but the colour still remained – an ugly, heavy spray. Like dried blood, almost. Suddenly, an angry buzzing noise pierced Joe's brain, made the space behind his eyeballs hurt like the blazes—

_A flash: confined in darkness, a box, moving_

_Abrupt brightness, blinding for nocturnal eyes_

_Pain as metal sliced into flesh_

_blood spraying_

_scream_

He gasped, blinked. The air whistled in his throat. The buzzing faded. Joe turned quickly, looked around the lab but the others were engrossed in their own finds. His hands had left smudged prints on the glass.

 _Just me, then._ He shook his head, more irritated than frightened. _Oh, come on, does it have to happen now? This ISN'T the best time to be hallucinating. The stupidest thing is that it isn't even useful. Freaky visions: still pretty freaky. Freaky visions: still pretty useless._

 _I mean, that alien was nice (kind of) but it messed up my brain somehow, too. That's not fair. And I don't like not knowing what all this means. I don't like not being able to control it, I don't like not being able to_ think _straight. What the hell am I supposed to do with weird, telepathic memories?_

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped. "Oh. Hey Charles." He forced a smile.

"Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah, just thinking."

"Cool, cool. Guess what I found?"

"Um... dunno."

"Something interesting you might wanna look at." Charles held up a folder. "It's some info about the, um… dreams… we had."

" _Huh_. Really." _Of course it is._ Joe waited as his friend leafed through the papers, irritation giving way to curiosity. Charles eventually found what he was looking for.

"See, it says here," he began, tracing the words with a finger. "There was this guy, James Gary Longman, who started seeing these hallucinations about five years ago. He was part of the army, completely normal, but then he went missing for a week on a training exercise in 1972… and when he came back, he'd changed. A lot. He started spouting all this weird knowledge about gods, and planets, and different creatures. This folder has a bunch of interviews with him. I've only read a few so far but they sound pretty similar to what we saw. You know – images, vague feelings, that kind of stuff. No one else really believed what he was saying, obviously, but he kept insisting he wasn't crazy."

"What happened to him? Is he still around?"

"Well, um… no." Charles grimaced. "The dreams kept getting worse, so he was chucked into a mental institution two years ago. Everyone thinks he's a lunatic."

"Great." Joe sighed. "That's just _great_. Is there any info about the cause in there? Anything about what it means?"

Charles didn't have a chance to answer, because across the room, somebody else chose that exact moment to walk into the lab – not through the heavy main doors but through a smaller entrance at the rear. Joe heard the handle _click_ , immediately whirled around. Scattered across the laboratory, the others did the same.

It was a man.

They froze.

* * *

Alice and Rachel trudged down the hall to their lockers, on their way to grab their books for the next class. Rivers of people flowed past left and right, chatting animatedly as they waited for the end-of-lunchtime bell.

"So where do you live, actually?" Alice asked.

"Wright Lane. We moved in about a month ago," Rachel replied.

"Wright… I think that's pretty close to Joe and Charles' place. It's near the park, isn't it?"

"That's the one."

"Cool. Nice house?"

"Sort of. It's quite small but there's only three of us, so that's fine."

"I'll have to come and visit sometime. Sorry, I'll just be a second." Alice stopped in front of her locker and entered her combination. She pulled it open, removed her maths book from where it was leaning against the side. The cube was there also (she'd thought it best to keep it close by), sitting innocently on top of her file. After a moment's pause she grabbed it, passing it to the other girl. "Here. I wonder if you can make any sense of it."

"Thank you." Rachel took the cube, inspecting it curiously, feeling the surface beneath her fingers. It was rough, yet smooth at the same time – a complete contradiction. _But that's how it feels._ She slid a fingernail into one of the grooves in its shape and it came out covered in dirt.

Alice chuckled nervously. "Should probably clean it."

 _It's man-made, obviously_ , Rachel thought. _Machined… or maybe moulded. Feels like plastic. Quite light. The body's subdivided into smaller and smaller sections, like… what are they called? Fractals, that's right. Like a fractal._

 _I have no idea what its purpose is, though. It's strange. Seems odd._ She weighed it in one hand, closing her fingers round the shape. The cube's edges dug into her skin. And suddenly, it—

Transformed.

No. That wasn't right. The cube was still there, sitting placidly in her palm, but in her _mind_ , flickering behind her eyes, there was an image of it… _unfolding_. The shapes that made up the cube were moving, some expanding, some shrinking, the gaps growing wider and splitting and making new faces. Her view wavered, overlaid against reality. Now the cube was no longer a cube; instead a collection of silvery pieces that were clicking together, sliding against each other, always unfolding into a dish and buttons and a black face—

She blinked. The ghost was gone.

"What do you think?" Alice asked.

Rachel didn't reply.

 _I think you know a lot more than you're telling me, Alice. And if you genuinely don't know what this thing is, I_ also _think you're going to need somebody who's a lot smarter than me._

* * *

In unison, they stared at the intruder.

Luckily, perhaps, it wasn't a soldier – instead, it was a man in a dark suit. Absently Joe realised he'd actually seen the man before, in passing as they were ushered through the CIC one very long hour ago. He had olive skin, cropped black hair. The man looked about as shocked as they were.

There was a long, seemingly endless moment in which no one moved a muscle. The man stared at them. They stared at the man. It was impossible to pretend that they hadn't been caught in a place they DEFINITELY weren't supposed to be. Joe's brain had already geared into overdrive but every thought seemed useless. _Who are you? What are you doing here?_

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" the man echoed aloud.

Joe nearly giggled. _I guess those are the obvious questions… and there aren't any good answers._

The man's gaze flicked between them, eyes calculating. He took one step forward, then another. Not threatening. Not yet. Then he appeared to come to a decision, reached for something on his belt—

_BANG!_

The door behind him burst open again, and this time a squad of soldiers _did_ barge through! There were five – no, six of them, dressed in olive-green combat fatigues, some carrying ugly black shotguns. They fanned out along the wall before anyone could react, the leader opening his mouth to give an order.

Cary was closest to them at the back of the room. "HOLY SHIT!" he screamed.

"FREEZE! Down on the ground!"

No one froze. Instantly, time raced forwards. Cary vaulted over the nearest table, sprinting towards the main doors. The others did the same from across the lab, skidding along the tiles, Joe and Charles from the left, Martin from the right while desperately stuffing papers into his pockets. Preston leapt out of his seat at the computer. No time to think. The soldiers swarmed after them, charging through the scattered scientific equipment – Joe could hear their boots and shouts but he didn't dare look back.

"I said freeze!"

Martin reached the door first, shoved it open with his shoulder. "Hurry, come on!" He held it as they ran past, Charles, Joe, Preston, Cary, then ducked through himself and slammed it shut. The room outside was blessedly empty.

For a moment, shocked silence.

Then Cary swore. "Holy _shit_ , holy shit, we are so SO dead you guys—"

"Shut up!" Charles hissed. "We have to think. Which way?"

Ten seconds to decide. Joe spotted the window, still slightly ajar from where they'd hidden on the balcony. He pointed. "Outside."

"Are you sure that's a good—"

"Who cares!?" He dashed to the window and opened it, leapt out onto the catwalk. One by one the others followed. Preston grabbed Charles' hand and pulled him through, a second before the swarm of soldiers burst out of the lab. Joe squinted at the sudden brightness, looking east, then west, trying to remember the way back to— _Where do we go? We can't just run back to the tour group. Can we?_

 _Doesn't matter, have to leave._ He picked east and started running, sneakers pounding on the catwalk. Steel rattled beneath his feet. He kept one hand planted on the outside railing, eyes focused straight ahead, all too aware of the three-storey fall to their right and the tarmac far below.

"Stop! Stop right now!" someone yelled. The voice came from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and saw one soldier climb out after them, slipping sideways to fit through the window, locking onto the fleeing group with a steely gaze. The rest of the guards were probably following from inside. Every few metres they passed another window but it was impossible to see in while they ran.

Then: _BANG!_ The air cracked, shockingly loud. A split-second later there was a loud _prannggg!_ as something ricocheted off the catwalk. Martin was at the rear, turned to check; the pursuing soldier was crouched on one knee, the barrel of the gun pointed right at—

"That was a SHOTGUN!" he screeched. "A freaking shotgun!"

"Shit!"

"Keep running!" Joe breathed hard, his lungs filled with smoky air. Grey fog surrounded the top floor, made his throat itch. And, suddenly, where the catwalk disappeared around the corner of the building, another guard appeared up ahead of them. _Crap! Damn. Crap damn crap damn._ Coherent thought was very far away. The soldier levelled his weapon and fired.

 _BANG!_ Joe ducked reflexively as a black cloud whistled over his head. The soldier stood, started striding towards them, their escape route now blocked in both directions.

"I think they're rubber bullets," Cary said urgently.

"What?"

"They're not lethal rounds, I think they're shooting rubber—"

There wasn't time. Joe skidded to a stop at the next window, wrenched it open. _Can't go forwards, can't go back. Have to go in._ He paused for the briefest of moments to check there wasn't a soldier waiting, then threw himself back inside; his shoe caught the windowsill on the way and he tumbled clumsily to the floor. _Ow._

He got up. Something twanged in his knee. This was an area he recognised, at least – the warehouse-slash-storage-room with the locked gate in the middle. "Cary?"

"Yeah?"

"I really hope you still have that key."

"Yep, got it."

Ten seconds later they were all inside. From behind there was the sound of approaching footsteps, someone roaring an order. Pursuit was relentless. _You're gonna have to better than that to catch us, though_ , Joe thought determinedly _._ They raced past the shelves, dodging around crates and boxes, vaulting over equipment. Soon they met the metal fence, turned and dashed along it towards the gate. There were definitely soldiers inside the warehouse now, pouring in from the back. More than six. The air was flooded with raised voices.

Here was the gate. Cary took the keycard, slotted it into the lock. _One, two, beep!_ Charles grabbed the bars and swung it open, right as a pair of guards appeared at the end of the aisle.

"Shit! Hurry!"

They piled through, full of panic. Charles wrenched the gate shut again _just_ as the soldiers reached them; one tried to unfasten it but the lock held. He slammed his shoulder against the metal in frustration, bare inches from Charles' nose.

"AAAGH!" Charles fled, sprinting after the others.

"Quickly, get the key!" the guard shouted. "QUICKLY!"

They bolted by the rest of the shelves, the world passing in a blur. The warehouse ended and they entered another hallway, slid round the corner. This corridor opened into yet another familiar room: the carpeted office in which they'd sneaked past the receptionist.

The receptionist was still there in fact, sitting quietly behind the counter. She looked up as the five boys entered, running, puffing frantically, but her face barely had time to register surprise before they'd galloped into the next hallway. She was even more surprised when – twenty seconds later – a squad of furious soldiers followed like bees angry defending a hive.

"My word, what is going on today—"

Fluorescent lights passed by overhead. Blue carpet passed low underfoot. More corridors.

"This isn't the way!" Preston wheezed, sucking in air.

Martin glanced at him. "Whaddaya mean this isn't—"

"We were supposed to turn thirty yards ago! I have no idea where we are now!"

Around the next corner, the passage finished in a dead end. Well, not _quite_ a dead end – there was a set of silver elevator doors in the left-hand wall. Cary ran up and hammered the 'down' arrow, stepped back and waited for them to open. His foot tapped on the carpet. "Come on, come oooonnn…"

Charles was the last to arrive, stumbling down the corridor. He coughed. "Why… why have we stopped?"

"Elevator," Joe said tersely.

"Crap. Maybe we can try another path?" He peered back the way they'd come. "NOPE! Definitely nope! Guys, they're almost on us!"

 _Ding!_ At long last, the doors opened. They darted inside, squeezing into the metal space. Cary selected a floor and waited for it to close.

Nothing happened. He pushed the door button again. _Tap! Tap! Tap-tap-tap!_ "Oh my god, how slow is this thing?"

The soldiers were getting close. Joe could hear their voices, suddenly loud and clear as they entered the hallway. _"Where are they?"_ _"They're taking the elevator!"_ All they could do was wait. Listen. Bodies quivered with adrenaline.

"Why aren't you _closing_!?" Cary hissed. He reached out, smacked the control panel, which must've done something because the doors _finally_ began to shut – but just as they were about to slide closed _a pair of gloved hands speared through the gap_ , preventing them from escape and the doors shuddered, trying to lock, but the hands somehow got a grip and started levering them apart again, revealing a pair of muscled arms attached to a very pissed-off soldier—

"Get – OFF!" Martin yelled. He stepped forwards, viciously kicked at the man's stomach and something snapped as heel met bone.

"Aughh!" The soldier grunted, suddenly winded; fell back as he lost his grip. Before anyone else could stop them, the doors closed with a muffled _clack._

The elevator lurched and began to descend.

For a few brief moments, it was gloriously calm. Martin stood, breathing desperately. Joe stared blankly at the floor. Charles was leaning exhausted against the wall, then slid down it till he was half-sitting on the carpet. The noise of the fire siren was still present, but distant, like something that didn't really matter anymore.

"…Wait a second. Why are we going down?" Preston asked.

Cary shrugged. "Why not?"

"Down isn't the way we came."

"Who cares? _I_ don't know how the hell we're getting out of this. Nice kick by the way, Martin."

"Thanks." He wriggled his ankle. "My foot hurts."

"Not as much as that dude's ribs."

Cary had apparently selected the basement level and they watched in silence as the light ticked downwards. _Level two, level one, basement..._ _ding_! The doors rattled open.

It was hard to muster the strength for much else, but, slowly, they walked out of the elevator.

They appeared to be in what looked like a parking garage: a wide, open space, carved from asphalt and bare cement, the roof supported by thick pillars. A selection of jeeps and trucks were parked in straight rows. Various passageways split off part-way along it, each labelled with a glowing green exit sign. It was enormous; could've almost been a hundred yards from end-to-end. _You could probably hold a football game in here._

Thankfully there weren't any soldiers waiting. "What now?" Charles asked. "Left or right? How are we gonna do this?"

 _Does it matter?_ Joe thought, tiredness beginning to manifest. _We have no idea where we are, or_ _how to get out_. _I'm starting to think this whole exercise was always doomed to fail._ _Shoulda listened to Alice…_ _but we can't give up now. We didn't succeed the last time by giving up half-way._

Preston seemed to agree. "We keep going. We're going to find our class and join up with them, and then we're going to leave like nothing's happened. Most of the soldiers are busy with the fire. Once we lose the group chasing us, we should be OK."

"They kinda _know_ it was us in there, though."

"Yes, but they can't _prove_ anything since they didn't get us on the cameras. We can say we just got lost when the fire alarm started… I hope."

"If you say so," Charles said, unconvinced. "I guess we'll try left."

They started walking. The ever-present siren still echoed from the walls, rising and falling, rising and falling. _I feel like I'm about to go crazy. Obviously Cary did a pretty good job, if the fire hasn't been extinguished yet._

They were about twenty yards into the garage when, without warning, the lights turned off.

Suddenly, it was pitch black. "Aaah!"

"What the hell?!"

"Everyone wait!" Charles barked. "Don't move."

They paused. It was basically impossible to see anything; just deep, impenetrable darkness, plus the distant green islands of the exit signs, too far away for comfort.

"You guys OK?" Martin asked cautiously.

"Yeah, fine."

"Just surprised," Joe replied. Charles was a vague outline to his right and he blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust. "It's probably the fire. It must be knocking out the power."

"Yeah, maybe," Charles agreed.

"Definitely, actually," Cary said. "Sorry."

"Okay. Well… everyone go slow, let's try and make it to the nearest exit."

"Alright."

Slowly, they shuffled forwards, sticking close together. Cary reached out and glued his hand to Preston's shoulder. The shadows were dark enough, black enough to feel vaguely suffocating, but it wasn't too difficult to make their way down the central row without stumbling into each other. Vehicles loomed on either side as strange, barely-visible shapes, and Joe's ears prickled at every sound.

"Charles, I think—"

 _Bzzzzzt!_ Abruptly, power returned. The lights flicked on again, one after the other, swiftly banishing the darkness.

Cary sighed with relief. "Thank god that's ov— crap!"

There was a figure standing at the far end of the basement that _definitely_ hadn't been there before. It was a man, tall, very thin, who wore a pressed black suit with hands clasped behind his back. He was bald, but was otherwise too distant to make out any facial features – nothing except that he appeared to be staring straight at them. His skin was very pale; so pale it almost seemed to vanish under the lights.

"Gotta run," Charles muttered. "C'mon."

They started sprinting for the closest exit on the right. It was a fair distance in front of them, almost fifty yards, but the man was still much further away which would hopefully give 'em enough time to get there first—

 _Bzzzzt!_ The world disappeared again, swallowed by blackness. Joe slowed down on instinct, since running blind at full pelt sounded like a pretty terrible idea. _Man, w_ _hat the hell is happening?_ Around him, the others did the same and he reached out, feeling for obstacles. The fire must've been playing havoc with the electrical lines.

Then, Martin grunted as he walked straight into a pillar. " _Screw this!_ "

"Shhh," Preston whispered. "If the lights stay off, we might be able to sneak past." He took a step, softly as possible. Then another.

No sound, but for the slight scraping of shoes. Then:

 _Bzzzzt!_ Vision returned. Bright, blinding.

And eerily the figure was closer. Much closer. His suit hung loosely from bony shoulders, his lips pursed, and his eyes were— Joe met his gaze for the tiniest moment and felt an inexplicable shiver. His eyes were pure black.

They started running. Joe gritted his teeth, blood pounding in his ears. Thirty yards, twenty. Getting close. Charles was in front, slipping between two trucks. Seconds later—

_Bzzzzt!_

"God _damnit_! Guys, follow me!" They were close enough to the exit now that the world wasn't _entirely_ black, just murky shades of grey and green. Joe tried to focus on the man but for some reason couldn't spot him in the gloom. He nearly tripped over a brick lying on the concrete and knives of pain stabbed through his toes. He bit his lip.

Then the lights were shining again, and shockingly the man was standing RIGHT THERE without having appeared to move. Charles skidded to a stop. Flinched. The figure towered imposingly above them, five yards away, less, and yet, although he was close, Joe still couldn't quite see his face; he started dodging to the left on instinct, an unsettling _wrong_ feeling tingling in his brain, when he heard something scrape behind him, heard Cary yell with unexpected fury, saw a brick sail through the air in his peripheral vision and arc straight for the man's pale face—

_Bzzzt!_

—and then he couldn't see, but could still hear, and instead of a grunt there was a peculiar whistling- _rattling_ noise like a storm whipping at a window, and— _bzzzzt!_

The man was gone.

Cary paused, still in brick-throwing position, mouth hanging open. There was nowhere to hide under the bright garage lights; nowhere anyone could've escaped to. Nevertheless, the garage was empty. The brick skipped across the concrete, spinning, sliding, before eventually coming to a stop.

Silence.

Preston was crouched behind a jeep. He stood up. "Okay, can someone please explain what the _fuck_ is happening?!"

"I was hoping you could," Charles said quietly.

Preston tended to save the f-word for very special occasions, and this was might've the second in fourteen years. Nobody else had an answer for him, either too dazed or tired to think. And then there was no more time to think: the elevator suddenly _dinged_ again and a squad of soldiers poured out. They had guns. They looked serious. They were also moving _quite_ fast.

"There! Stop! On your knees!"

Joe realised he'd been expecting it – _'bout time_ – and he and Martin sprinted to the left.

Cary, Charles and Preston sprinted to the right. It took Joe a few seconds to realise they'd split up; when he did, he glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see Charles shout "Joe, what the hell are you—"

 _Too late_. Joe and Martin disappeared down the left-hand exit. The others darted along the right-hand side, passing out of view.

"Crap!" Martin groaned. "What do we do? What do we do?"

"We keep running," Joe muttered. _What else?_

The exit passageway was made of the same bare concrete as the rest, the floor sloping slightly upwards. Joe assumed that it was ascending towards ground level. If the building was symmetrical, maybe they could skirt around the perimeter and meet the others half-way… _but then we'd be caught between two groups of soldiers. Better to find our own escape route._

 _Hopefully Charles realises the same thing._ The passage speared onwards, arrow straight, until it ended in a single door. Joe looked behind him and could barely see some dark shapes hurrying along the corridor. _Got time. Twenty seconds, maybe._

He pushed through the doorway, was immediately assaulted by dazzling afternoon sunlight. Before him was a fifty-yard stretch of black tarmac, beyond which was a chain-link fence, then a set of huge, blue circular water tanks. The sudden openness was startling after spending so long inside. Martin peered upwards, shielding his eyes with one hand. "Ladder?" he suggested.

Joe followed his gaze. Attached to the wall beside them was a thin maintenance ladder; it scaled the building, past the balconies, all the way to another door on the top floor. "Yeah. Let's go."

"You start, I'll jam the door."

Joe did as he was told and started climbing. _Okay. A ladder's good. We can get back to the observation tower and join the rest of the school group. If they've moved, we can hide out until the fire alarm goes off (or at least until these guys stop chasing us), then figure out where to go from there. That's a plan._ Below him, there was a heavy _clunk_ as Martin grabbed an iron bar from the ground and used it to block the handle.

They climbed up as the sun beat down. First floor, then second floor, then third, arms beginning to ache. Martin's door-jam appeared to have worked and there were no conspicuous signs of pursuit. A minute later, they reached the top. Joe's shoe slipped on the metal and his heart lurched; he managed to keep his balance and cautiously opened the balcony door.

An empty, familiar, white-painted hallway. He stepped inside.

"I think I know where we are," Martin whispered.

"Yeah, me too."

They walked down the hall, the carpet muffling their footsteps. It was eerily quiet apart from the fire alarm; he supposed that everyone had been evacuated someplace safe. Up here, the smoke was much thicker again, a grey haze that blurred the air at end of the corridor. He sneezed. More doors passed by on either side, all locked. _Stairs to the tower should be just past the next bend._

Also past the next bend was a group of ten soldiers. They surged around the corner and Joe skidded to a halt, eyes wide.

The next set of events seemed to happen in slow motion. Joe turned on a dime and started sprinting the other way, his legs far too heavy. Martin shouted something, did the same a split-second later. He slipped on the carpet, steadied himself with a hand against the wall. The soldiers barged towards them.

_Chk-chk… BANG!_

Joe's brain barely had time to register the sound before agony exploded in his thigh. He felt his leg collapse from under him; saw the floor rapidly approaching. He tripped. Then there was more pain as a weight crashed into his back – _Martin_ , he realised distantly – and they both toppled to the ground. He wanted to move but couldn't. It was impossible.

 _I'm scared,_ he thought softly.

Then something hard and metallic whacked into his skull and the world went utterly black.

* * *

Fire raged along the southern side of the administration building, flames hissing and licking at the air. An orange glow had nearly consumed the upper level, the interior black and charred, the heat rising in shimmering waves. Despite the pair of fire engines pumping water at the blaze, the fire was very persistent – quickly, casually, a train of embers floated onto a nearby fuel line, and the temperature made it catch alight within seconds.

The flames raced; raced across the tarmac, following the pipe, the fuel doing what fuel did best. _Burning._ The pipe led into Hangar #2 and the hangar walls didn't stop the blaze. Neither did the rubber safety valves. Neither did the sprinklers.

A second later, the entire structure shuddered as the first fighter jet exploded. _BOOM!_ Then the next, even louder. _BOOOOM!_ Shards of molten steel scattered into the air. _Bang! Bang! BANG-BANG-BANG!_ It was a reckless, furious chain reaction of destruction, entirely unplanned, entirely out of control.

* * *

Alice opened the kitchen fridge and stared critically at its contents. _Someone'll have to go grocery shopping soon, and it's_ not _going to be me._ Sighing, she took some bread, tuna and decrepit-looking lettuce and put them on the kitchen bench. Sunlight streamed through the window above the sink, glinting off newly-washed plates.

She glanced at the phone. As it had been doing the past hour, it sat silently on the table.

 _No use worrying._ Alice grabbed the tin opener and decapitated the can of tuna, chucked the lid in the bin and dumped its contents on the bread. The lettuce was next, going on top. Then a thin layer of mayonnaise. Her fingers drummed on the bench in tense, staccato rhythm.

It was 4pm; _surely_ the boys should've been back by now. Joe said that he'd call her as soon as they returned. Didn't he?

…What if there _had_ been problem? What if they were in trouble? And here she was, making an after-school snack while the others could've needed help—

 _Ding-dong!_ The doorbell chimed, jolting her from her nervousness. She quickly shut the fridge and rushed out to the front hall, moving swiftly through the empty house. _Thank god. That must be them. Maybe they found something and wanted to visit instead. Just as I was starting to worry…_ Alice paused before the threshold for a moment and took a calming breath, tucked her hair behind her ear. She reached for the door and pulled it open.

But it wasn't Joe standing on the front steps. It was someone else. Her eyes widened in shock.

"…Mom?"

* * *

_Visitor 1: Kinshasa (Congo). Visitor 2: Tunguska (Russia). Visitor 3: Trujillo (Peru). Visitor 4: Alice Springs (Australia). Visitor 5: Nuuk (Greenland). Visitor 6: Manila (The Philippines). Visitor 7: Griefswald (Germany). Visitor 8: McMurdo (Antarctica). Visitor 9: Abuja (Nigeria). Visitor 10: Port Louis (Mauritius). Visitor 11: Roswell/Lillian (USA). Visitor 12: Inaba (Japan)._

_Visitor total: 12 (confirmed) & 3 (unconfirmed)._

_Visitor purpose: unknown._

_Visitor source: [REDACTED] & [REDACTED]_

**_– An extract from magnetic tape records of visitor activity, recovered from the ruins of The Pentagon in 1983_ **

* * *

Alice stared open-mouthed at the woman standing on the front porch. It was _her_ ; a little older, a little wearier, but definitely her. The same round face, the same slightly-curled brown hair… the same eyes that'd always stared at her from the photograph on her desk, in the flesh for the first time in seven long years.

"Hello, Ally," she said, her voice husky.

"…Hey." Alice's gaze flicked to the side, to the dark red Ford sitting in the driveway, then back to her visitor. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I – I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"Yes! Of course there does! You can't just come _back_." It sounded harsher than she intended.

"Whether I can, or whether I can't – it's me. I'm here." Her mom shrugged, smiling faintly. She clasped her hands in front of her, unsure of what to do with them. Her faded blue blouse seemed familiar in a strange, old way. _I've probably seen her wearing it a bunch of times. I just can't remember._ Alice realised her own shocked expression had transformed into something more stony, and wondered if she should smile, or snap, or… what. _I used to imagine this sometimes – mom coming back, seeing her again. Usually on those nights when dad wasn't so great. And even with all that thinking, all that imagining, I still have no idea what I should do._

Alice waited, standing in the doorway, a lump building at the back of her throat. _What the_ hell _, mom. How? Why? Why now?_

Her mom glanced around the garden. "The house looks okay," she said quietly. "Like I never left."

"Dad – dad painted it last year," she managed.

"Oh. Where… where is Louis?"

"He's still at work. It's a late shift tonight."

"Right. Wednesdays. I should've remembered."

"Should you?" Alice asked.

"Yes, Ally. I should've remembered." Her mom took a breath. "The reason I came here is because I heard something happened – the army business. I wanted to see you."

"That 'army business' happened two months ago."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I've been busy."

"With _what?_ "

"Just… life. Life can be difficult sometimes, you understand that."

"Yeah. I guess."

"How's school?"

"Fine. I'm in grade nine now."

"Yes. Yes, I know. Sorry." She spread her hands, looking away guiltily; the neighbour kids were playing in the yard next door, laughing and whooping as they chased each other with a hose. The water made a sharp _rat-tat-tat_ as it sprayed against the side of the house. "I thought the Johnsons only had one boy."

"Well." Alice shrugged. "Now they have three." She leaned against the doorframe.

_And that's the problem, isn't it._

_I don't know you anymore. I used to, but you left. You wanted to change, so you did. And now, there's this person standing before me, who I_ should _feel something for_ – _I KNOW I should –_ _but I don't. You're like… a stranger. I wish you weren't, but you are. Your hair's shorter. Your voice is lower. Your smile's more uncertain. If I walked behind you at the store, or passed you on the highway, I'm not sure if I'd realise it._

 _And you don't know me either._ _I can't deal with this. Not right now._

Suddenly, her mom reached out, placing a hand on her cheek. Alice froze. Her touch was warm. Gentle. "You always looked so much more like your father," she murmured. "For better or worse. His hair, his eyes… you were such a beautiful girl."

"…Thanks."

Eventually, she stepped back, letting her hand fall by her side. "Can I come in?"

"No," Alice said.

She frowned. "What?"

"No, you can't."

"Why?"

"Because you left."

"Ally, I know. But you don't understand – I _had_ to. I had to. You probably saw it was bad, you remember, and I still tried to hide the worst of it from you." She shuddered. "And because I left, now I can come back. I can be here for you. We can make those paper decorations like we used to, we can finish arranging those flowers in the garden. Do you remember how we used to sit together? You on my lap, watching me write—"

" _No_ ," Alice said, an edge in her voice. "No you don't. You don't get to come back like nothing's happened.

"But—"

"You haven't been here for seven years. You aren't in my _life_ anymore."

Her mother looked up with pleading eyes. "Alice, I made a hard decision, a long time ago. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, a thousand times."

"Really? You said you hid the worst of it. Once you were gone, I _saw_ the worst of it. And then it got better – it got better WITHOUT you. You can't just come and… take that away." _Take it for yourself._ She shook her head, cheeks burning. "No. Not now." _Maybe later, some other time, once I've had time to_ think.

Without warning, her mom reached out and snatched the doorhandle. She tried to slip past into the house, darting forwards but Alice stood fast, blocking the entrance.

"Ally, please!"

"No." She gritted her teeth. A strange feeling welled up inside her and she before she knew it she'd shoved her mother back, grabbed the door, slammed it shut as fast as she could. Quickly she turned the lock and leaned against the wood, breathing heavily.

Suddenly, she found herself alone in the dark hallway.

"Ally? Ally! Let me in!"That muffled voice sounded oddly desperate. Slowly, Alice sank to the floor, sitting against the wood. She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them with both arms. The floor was cold.

 _Knock knock knock!_ "Alice! I wanted to see you!"

She didn't reply. She rested her head on her knees, looking sideways, hair falling around her legs.

Silence, for a moment.

"So that's it?" the voice asked sadly. "I should just get back in my car, and… drive away?"

 _Yeah… Yeah. I'm sorry._ The door vibrated against her back; the handle clicking as someone attempted to turn it from the other side. _Knock knock knock! Knock knock!_

"Ally – I'll be back soon, okay? Don't tell your father I was here. Please! I'll be back soon, I promise."

There were footsteps on the porch.

A car door opening. The rumble of an engine.

Slowly, distantly, the red Ford pulled out of the driveway. Alice waited for a minute longer; then took a deep breath and stared glumly at the floor. She felt… relieved, somehow.

She sat on the floorboards for a long while, shivering in the gloom.

* * *

"Ughhhhh…"

With a long groan, Joe opened his eyes. Confusingly, it didn't appear to make any difference; he couldn't see. He blinked a couple of times, turning his head from left to right. Nothing.

_It's dark. Really dark._

He couldn't see _anything_.

His head throbbed. His lips were parched, tongue dry against the roof of his mouth. Gingerly, he reached behind his head and rubbed the new lump that'd formed on the back of his skull. A bolt of pain instantly shot through him.

"Aagh!"

 _Bad decision. Let's not touch it._ His hair felt wet; a bit of blood, maybe? He licked his finger and there was a definite coppery taste. _Hopefully it's stopped bleeding by now_. It was hard to know without light. Even more cautiously, he reached down and touched his thigh. The skin was raw and stung like the blazes, all the way down the right hand side. _Yep, definitely a bruise there. Those rubber bullets hurt._

He lay back. That was the only pain, as far as he could tell – head and leg. The rest seemed okay. Except—

He wasn't wearing any clothes.

Joe froze. His jeans were gone. His shirt, too, and his shoes. The hard floor was cool against his bare skin.

 _Okay, now this is creepy._ He shuffled around; at least he still had his underwear on. _Yep, still got that. Man, this gets better by the second. Why would they take the rest? To make sure we didn't steal anything? Check if we had any weapons?_

 _Doesn't matter. Time to figure out where the heck I am._ Unfortunately, he didn't recall being thrown into… wherever he was. _I was probably out cold when they dumped me here._ _But before that, we were running. Split up from the others. I got hit with… something. Then I fell. And – Martin! That's right. Martin was there too._

He couldn't remember anything after that. Joe rubbed his eyes (which, as expected, did absolutely nothing). _Come on, let's get up._ He turned onto his side and, with one arm, tried to push himself up into a sitting position. His stomach immediately rebelled and he gagged on air. _Bad idea! Bad idea._

 _But, you've gotta do it sooner or later._ He took a deep breath and began attempt two; this time his head throbbed even worse, but he managed to stay upright till the pain subsided.

_Well. This is fun._

It was still dark. It still hurt. He was still mostly naked. But you had to take the small victories, right? Otherwise you'd start being afraid, and start to wonder if – maybe – you were going to die here on this cold, hard floor. You'd start to wonder how far the army might go if it captured a couple of outsiders stealing deadly information.

Joe got to his knees, stretching out with both arms. His fingers met nothing but empty air. Clumsily, he shuffled to his right a little, like a blind man swimming towards some kind of distant understanding.

After a couple more feet, his hand met a wall. _Bingo._ He stood up and started creeping forwards. The wall continued for a few more metres, then turned a corner. He followed it, stepping cautiously through the dark. His bare feet were silent on the cement. Even at his very slow pace, it didn't take long to make a complete circuit. The room appeared to be rectangular, maybe five metres by four, featureless except for a single door. He'd tried it, obviously. Obviously, it was locked.

Joe stopped. This had to be a cell of some kind – what else would you call a dark, sealed room? He sniffed the air, and the faint scent of burning entered his nostrils. _Smoke… that might mean we're still at the base! That's something. And what about the others?_ With luck, maybe Charles, Preston and Cary had managed to escape. Martin, though; where was Martin? He'd have been captured as well. _And he is probably_ freaking _OUT._

 _Alright, stay calm. You have to stay calm. I wonder what time it is._ His ankle was starting to twinge a little; maybe he'd twisted it when he fell _._ Joe paused, listening. Perhaps there were some people nearby.

Or perhaps not. There were no hints of muted conversation, no rumbles of hidden machinery – only his heartbeat, slow and steady in his chest. _Ba-dump. Ba-dump._ And… breathing? Not his own, someone else's.

Yes. Definitely breathing. Usually, that wasn't something you'd want to hear in a mysterious, pitch black room. _But I'll take what I can get._

"Hello?" he murmured.

It came out as more of a croak. Joe swallowed, trying to get his throat to start working. "Hello? Anyone there?"

"Ooooohhhhh… gooooodddd…"

"Martin, is that you?"

"Joe?" There was a rasping noise from the centre of the room, then a huge, hacking cough. "Crap, this hurts. Ugh."

"Are you – are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Give me a second."

"Sure. Man, I didn't think anyone else was in here." Joe immediately crawled towards the noise, happier than he had any right to be. Having a friend always made things better, no matter the situation. _And this is a pretty bad one._

"Hey, Martin," he hissed. "Are you wearing any clothes?"

"Why would you _ask_ me that? Oh… No."

"Me neither. I think the guards took them."

"Well, I hope so. My parents would _kill_ me if I lost those pants on my own."

Joe grinned in the darkness.

"Joe, where are you?"

"Here."

"Where's 'here.'"  
"I dunno, just wave your arms around. This room's pretty small."

A second later, one of Martin's fists smacked into Joe's shoulder. "Found you."

"Ow! Do you wanna sit down?"

"Yeah. Yeah, my stomach isn't doing so great. Or my head."

"Alright. Follow me." Joe grabbed Martin's arm and led him to the nearest wall. Carefully, he sat, leaning back against the concrete. It was smooth. Cold. He winced as he shifted his leg out from under him, and felt Martin's shoulder brush briefly against his own. It was the only warm thing in the room.

Beside him, Martin sighed tiredly. "This is awkward."

"…Yeah." _To put it mildly._

"How long have you been awake?"

"Not long. Like, five minutes."

"Cool. Anything interesting in here?"

"Nope. Just you, me and a door."

"What about the others?"

"I'm not sure," Joe replied. "Hopefully they got out. They're not with us, at least."

"Ugh. Great." Martin groaned again. Joe heard him lean forwards and spit something onto the floor. "They didn't even give us blankets."

"Somehow, I don't think they care very much if we're comfortable. What do you think they're going to do… to us, I mean."

"I don't know. I don't _want_ to know."

_I guess not. None of it matters anyway if we don't get out of here, and no plan in the world is gonna help us do that. Not yet._

They sat in silence, listening to each other's breathing. Martin's was fast, erratic; a symptom of the apprehension he'd – so far – managed to keep under control. They were both nervous. Joe tried to breathe more slowly, deeply, the cold air filling his lungs. Gradually, he heard Martin's breaths slow down to match his own. _That's good. Stay calm._

Then his friend's stomach grumbled in the darkness. The sound was startlingly loud.

"Sorry dude," Martin murmured. "But I am _so_ hungry."

"Me too, a bit."

"What time do you think it is?"

"I have no idea." Joe looked around, straining for the slightest hint of light. It didn't help. His mouth was dry as a desert.

"I hope they feed us. That'd be nice," Martin said glumly.  
"Yeah. I could use some water."

"I'm… I'm kinda scared."

"Me too."

Joe wasn't sure how long they sat there, next to each other in the gloom. It could've been five minutes. It could've been thirty. Martin tried to clean his glasses, realised he had nothing to clean them with, then realised that it was pointless anyway without any light to see by.

It was strange, being this powerless; being able to do absolutely nothing. Last time it'd happened, they'd been locked up in the back of a bus, driving away from Lillian, and even _that_ hadn't been so bad – at least other people had been there. At least a huge alien had come along to (accidentally) set them free. Now… nothing. No plans. No help. No escape routes.

The only thing to do was to wait.

"Joe?" Martin asked.

"Yeah?"

"I was meaning to ask you something. You and the others."

"What is it?"

"Well…" His voice was low. "You guys… you've been looking at be differently, somehow. Like you're nervous, or something."

"Nervous?"

"Yes."

Joe's stomach did another little backflip. _Uh-oh, was it that obvious? I thought we were good at keeping secrets. Or maybe that's the problem: that we were keeping secrets at all._ "Martin…"

"Joe, just tell me. I don't like it when you guys look at me weird."

"I know, but—"

"Besides, I'm currently starving in some sort of military dungeon. I don't see how things could get much worse."

"Yeah, maybe." Joe swallowed. _This is the kind of information that ruins peoples' lives, though. But – Martin has a right to know, doesn't he? The secret's gonna explode at some point, and if he_ does _know, maybe it'll make things better? It's not OUR fault, it's Martin's dad who's the problem. I don't know. It's crappy. This whole thing's… crappy._

 _I guess I should probably tell him. What an_ awesome _time for it._ "This just happened in the past week or so," he began. "Only between Charles, Preston and me."

"Okay. What?"

"Well, we saw some… stuff. With your dad. And we think… well…" He paused. There wasn't really a good way to say it. "We think your dad's having an affair."

"I know."

"We saw him at your house after school once, with this other woman, when you were sick. And then later on the weekend he was with her at his office, and he was—"

"Joe, I _know_."

"…What? You do?"

"Yeah. For a couple of months." Martin sighed. Joe couldn't see his expression in the dark but he imagined his shoulders slumping; imagined him looking at the floor, biting his lip. His voice was steady. "Thanks for looking out for me. But it's OK."

Joe shook his head. "Is it?"

"I… suppose so. I found them out a while ago, when I skipped sports practice. I saw them in my dad's room. I don't think they realised."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Why didn't _you_ tell anyone?" he retorted. "It wouldn't make things better. And it's not like it made things worse, either. It's… the same. Maybe things'll stay the same, if I keep on lying about it."

"Does – does your mom know?"

"I don't think so. But she'll find out eventually. They're not very careful, dad and that – _woman_. And then… I hear them arguing, you know? They're at work so much that they don't see each other very often, but when they do, it's always arguing. Maybe, maybe it's actually better this way. Maybe it won't be that bad."

"It might work out," Joe said, trying to sound convincing.

"It might. It's stupid, though."

"Yeah."

"He's stupid, she's stupid, they're all just… idiots." Martin sighed again, something rasping in his throat. "You know what? The only time my parents have acted like it is when they came to visit me in the hospital, that night after I broke my leg. The rest of the time, they're apart. It's like they barely know each other."

"Because they're you're _parents_. They'll always care about you, no matter what."

"Maybe. I wish they still cared about each other, though."

"I'm… sorry," Joe said quietly.

"Yeah, well. I am too."

There didn't seem to be much else to say.

"We'll be there, whatever happens." _Like you guys were there for me._

"Thanks, Joe. I know."

* * *

Alice sat on the stairs, head resting in her hands. She shut her eyes, then opened them again, staring at the old grey carpet. She felt… hollow. Struggling with what to think. _I wasn't planning to tell him, anyway. That'd make things difficult – and that's what this is, really. It doesn't make things better. It makes things_ difficult. _Seeing her, right there after all these years…_ _I used to dream of it._

_I don't know. I don't know._

The phone rang. She looked up, startled; after a couple more seconds, she got to her feet and walked to the table. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was urgent. _"Hey, Alice. It's Charles."_

"Charles? What happened? Are you guys okay?"

_"No. Yes! Maybe. I'm fine, Cary and Preston are too, but Joe and Martin… they got left behind."_

"What?!"

_"Things went bad, Alice, really bad! I'm not sure what happened. But we got split up, and they weren't with us on the bus back to school – I don't know what to do! They might've been captured at the base—"_

Alice held the receiver away from her ear, staring at it like a rattlesnake. Her hand shook.

_"Alice? Alice, you there?"_

* * *

The thing about being kept in a sunless cell for several hours was that it was _boring_. It was hard to find nice things to think about, and it was even harder to find a comfortable place to sit ('I Spy' wasn't exactly an option). _I wonder what the others are doing right now_ , Joe thought. _Option A: they escaped, and are worried sick trying to find us. Option B: they were caught as well, and are currently being interrogated in a thousand horrible ways._

 _I like Option A better._ "Martin?"

"M-hm?"

"Did you take anything from the lab? I saw you carrying some photographs."

"Right, I gave 'em to Preston to carry. He had bigger pockets."

"Oh, that's good. They seemed useful."

"Yeah, definitely."

 _No use to us right now though,_ he thought grimly. _Maybe we should try and—_

Something clicked on the other side of the room: the sound of a key in a lock. There was someone at the door. Joe scrambled to his feet. _Good or bad?_ Before he could decide it swung open and light _flooded_ into the cell. He threw a hand up in front of his face, recoiling from the unexpected brightness. Eventually, however, he could see again, and the room looked basically like how he'd imagined it – bare concrete, low ceiling, featureless walls. Martin was kneeling in the far corner, still shielding himself from the light.

And, standing in the open doorway was a _very_ humourless guard. Joe felt understandably exposed in his rumpled green boxers. The guard gazed at him for a moment, not giving anything away; then he tossed two small bags onto the floor of the cell.

"Put these on, both of you. Then you're coming with me."

* * *

"How could you let this happen?" Alice asked urgently.

Charles shook his head. "It's not like we were _trying_ to get caught! We just did!"

"Then what do we do now?"

"I… don't know."

They were gathered in the park, in a small grove of trees. It made for a relatively secluded meeting spot – hidden from view apart from the single path running through it, and the dense branches muffled most sound. It was also mildly creepy in the twilight, with foliage rustling in the breeze. They sat on the benches on either side of the path (everyone who hadn't been left behind, anyway). Sneaking out on a school night had been hard to pull off, especially for Preston and his very watchful parents, but this particular meeting wasn't optional.

Alice looked down, and realised her hand was still shaking imperceptibly. _Come on, stop it. I bet Joe didn't go crazy when_ you _got taken. At the same time, I guess his mom didn't turn up on his doorstep for the first time in seven years._

"So," she said. "You guys were there. What went wrong?"

Charles exchanged a glance with the others. "Nothing, really. We were lucky for most of it. Until the end."

"I set the building on fire," Cary added.

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Because you shouldn't be. But the fire was bit… huge-r… than it was supposed to be, so we had to leave early. Joe and Martin weren't with us. They were probably left behind. It was bad."

"Wouldn't the teachers have noticed?"

"Yeah, I guess." Charles shrugged. "The soldiers were talking to 'em though, they must've sorted it out somehow."

"So what you're saying is that you don't know when, where, how, or even _if_ Joe and Martin were caught," Alice said grimly.

"Yep. That about sums it up," Preston replied.

" _Damn_ it."

"Yep."

She thought for a second. "We still have to try and help. The question is _how_. With the fire, I bet the girls' trip tomorrow will be cancelled; that means we have to go on our own. Did you see anything while you were there that might—"

Suddenly, there was a sharp rustling noise behind them, and a middle-aged man emerged from the trees. He casually made his way down the gravel path, walking a dog on a leash – an old, droopy-eyed beagle.

They fell silent. The man noticed them and stared curiously for a moment. _Three boys and a girl, out far later than they should be…_ Then he seemed to shrug and kept walking, nodding to them as he passed.

"Evening."

"Evening," Charles replied.

Alice waited until he was barely out of earshot. "—that might signal where they are?" she whispered.

"Not with any certainty," Preston said.

"Nope," Cary agreed. "We took some stuff from the lab but it doesn't help."

"We'll have to wait till tomorrow anyway," Charles murmured gloomily. "I hate to say it, but we have no freaking clue what to do. It'll take time figure something out, and it'll only make it worse if we act now and do something stupid."

 _That's the truth, I guess,_ Alice thought _. I don't like it, but Charles is right, as usual. Although there is one thing we could try…_

"What if we ask Rachel?" she suggested.

"Um…" Cary blinked. "What would _she_ know about it?"

"Her dad – he was with the army, right? The CIA."

"Oh, no. No no no," Preston said. "We don't know anything about him. That could go bad, fast."

"This entire situation is _already_ bad," Alice replied. "And she could probably get some information if we asked her. That's the _one thing_ we need most. I know it sounds crazy, but… I trust her. Enough for this, at least."

Charles paused, thinking hard. "Maybe… I dunno. If we don't make any progress by tomorrow…" Then he nodded, appearing to make up his mind. "Look, guys. If Joe and Martin are prisoners, they're in serious trouble. You _saw_ what those soldiers were prepared to do to catch us. You saw how freaky the stuff in that lab was. Asking for help might be dangerous, but it's nowhere near as dangerous as what they might be going through right now. We're gonna have to save 'em in ANY way we can, and if that means going to someone else…" He looked around the circle. "…then that's what we have to do."

* * *

They were each given a white singlet and a pair of shorts. Before putting them on, Joe had briefly checked his injuries; the leg didn't look great, with its ugly collection of red-yellow splotches, but at least his newly-lumpy head was feeling a little better.

And now they were being marched down a hallway, flanked by two more soldiers. _I feel like I've been here before_ , Joe thought. Something about the place did seem vaguely familiar – the metal doors, the barred windows looking out over the twilit tarmac… _At least that tells us what time it is, even if we can't see much outside._ Then they rounded the corner, and Joe knew _exactly_ where he was.

It wasn't good. Before he could protest, the guard dragged him to a stop half-way down the hall. Martin was already being taken somewhere else, further along the corridor.

"Where are they going?" Joe asked.

The guard didn't reply. Joe glanced over his shoulder, catching one last glimpse of Martin's terrified face before the nearest door was opened and he was shoved inside.

* * *

The white room. It was mostly as he remembered it. White walls. White table. White floor. Fluorescent light shone harshly from the ceiling, with that bright, sterile _clean_ ness that brought to mind a hospital, or a laboratory, the kind that made your eyes squint in protest. As it had been during those never-ending 'interview' sessions, the room was mostly empty.

There was one new addition, however: a chair. A heavy, imposing chair, made of dark wood. Its legs had been bolted into the floor. Worryingly, the arm and leg rests were fitted with leather straps.

The soldier dragged him to the chair. "Sit."

He sat. There didn't seem to be much of a choice. The wood was cold and uncomfortable, and wordlessly, the soldier arranged his arms and legs in the appropriate spots. Then he cinched the leather straps around Joe's limbs – one for each wrist and ankle. Each one was checked, then tightened until it clicked.

 _Uh-oh. I don't like this_. Joe experimentally pulled against the restraints. He could move a little, though… not much. Not enough to make a difference. He was trapped.

The soldier left, shutting the door behind him.

Silence.

Joe waited, but no one else appeared. Once more, he tried moving his arms and legs, tried pushing the chair along the floor with his feet. It didn't budge. He grunted with effort, straining against the leather. His heart fluttered in his chest. _Starting to panic here…_ However, he didn't have to wait much longer. The door opened again, bringing with it the familiar _clack_ of heavy steel-toed boots. Joe couldn't quite twist enough to see who it was, but as it turned out, he didn't need to.

"Hello again, Joe," Lieutenant Forman said. "How… _unexpected_ to see you."

The voice sent an ice-cold shiver down his spine. Slowly, the lieutenant walked into view, a wide smile on his face. As always, it didn't fit with the setting; Forman, with his fine wrinkles and soft brown eyes, looked more like someone's kindly uncle than an interrogator. _Maybe that's what makes him so good at it._ Calmly, deliberately, he walked around the table, pausing for a moment on the opposite side. He shook his head sadly.

"Well, Joe. This is so very disappointing. What are we going to do with you?"

_Let me go? That'd be nice._

"I doubt we could simply set you free. That would be too – simple. So the question remains: what are we going to _do_ with you…" Forman sighed. He grabbed his own chair and took a seat, leaning back. One hand was placed on the table between them, fingers tapping on the smooth white surface. "I don't know. I don't know. But what you tell me here, in this room, will decide what – that – is." Suddenly he leaned forwards, gazing directly into Joe's eyes. Joe twitched. The smile was still in place, same as before, and he couldn't help staring at it like you might stare at the jaws of a wolf.

"Listen to me closely, Joe. Here, right now, you have one chance to tell me the truth. If you do that, we will be lenient. We will… wave this all away." He gestured at their surroundings. "But if you lie – and I will _know_ if you lie – the consequences will be particularly severe. Do you understand?"

Joe blinked, frozen by the smile.

"Do you understand me, Joseph?"

"Um…" He swallowed. "Yes. I think."

"I suppose that'll have to do." Forman sat back again, relaxed once more. "Now, as I understand it, you and your friends were caught inside a restricted area. When the guards came, you ran. Ignoring, for a minute, exactly _how_ this came to be – what were you doing, Joe? Why were you there?"

He sat quietly, pinned to the chair, looked downwards, mind racing. _What do I say? I can't tell him what we were looking for, can I? He'll ruin everything if I do. And I can't tell him what we know, because that puts the others in danger._

The room held no easy answers. "We were… we didn't mean to be there," Joe began. "We got…"

"…lost?"

"No, not lost. We thought it would be cool to look inside. You know, exploring. Then we saw the lab, and we got distracted. We didn't think about what we were doing."

"Obviously not. So, what you're saying is… you were exploring. Only having a bit of fun. That breaking into a classified laboratory was a mistake." The lieutenant frowned.

"No! No, it wasn't a mistake. We just didn't quite realise where we were. We were stupid. It was an accident."

"If it was an accident, then why did you run?"

"Instinct, I guess. We saw the guards, and… ran."

"You were scared."

"Yes. We didn't want to get in trouble." He took a deep breath, forced himself to look into the officer's eyes, eerily bright. "We didn't mean to do anything wrong."

"You didn't mean to do anything wrong; how thoughtful of you. Nevertheless, what you mean to do and what you _actually_ do are two very different things. Are you lying to me, Joe?"

He shook his head slightly.

"Why do I not believe you?"

"I don't know! I'm not lying."

" _I_ think you are," Forman hissed suddenly. "And you're not very good at it." Instantly, the smile disappeared, and in its place was anger. "Joe, let the record state that I gave you a chance. You took that chance and burned it to the goddamn ground – a lot like my offices, which I'm certain you had something to do with. This talk is about to get a lot more un _pleasant_." He nearly spat the last syllable and a fleck of saliva sailed across the desk, splashing on Joe's cheek. It sat there, untouched.

 _The mask is off,_ he thought glumly. _I think I liked him better with it on. Cary was always so good at lying…_

"What were you doing in the lab?"

"I—"

"What were you doing there? What were you _doing_ there?"

"I told you! It was a school trip, and we went exploring. The door was open. We found it by accident."

Forman reached into the pocket of his uniform and removed a small, black baton. He flicked a switch on the handle. It started buzzing. In one smooth movement he swept the baton under the desk, then suddenly slapped it against Joe's calf.

Zap!A sharp jolt of electricity ran up his leg – a static shock amplified five-fold. _Ow!_ His muscles twitched and he bit his cheek, straining against the chair. It hurt a surprising amount.

"How many of you were there? We had reports of five."

"There were – there were five of us, at the start. But only two of us went inside."

"You and the other boy?"

"Yeah."

Lieutenant Forman reached under the table. Joe gritted his teeth.

"Agh!" Even though he was prepared for it, he couldn't help but cry out. It was like someone snapping an elastic band against your skin, except shorter and harder and _everywhere_. His leg burned. _Crap!_ _I have to get out of here. They aren't allowed to do this to us, are they?_

"Joe, we saw five of you in there. Tell us who the others were."

He shook his head, biting his lip.

"Joe. You're only making it difficult."

"I'm telling you! It was only us! The others didn't do anything."

"No." Forman took the baton and held it above the desk. Joe followed the end of it with a nervous gaze. Slowly, inevitably, he moved it towards Joe's shoulder, until, delicately – it touched.

 _Zzap!_ The elastic band now felt like a baseball bat. He recoiled violently, gasping for air; wanted to move, but couldn't. Couldn't escape. The skin around it erupted in pins and needles, on fire. There was the faint taste of blood in his mouth.

"It'll only get worse, Joe. How _much_ worse is up to you. I will let you go if you tell me what happened. Lying only makes it harder." The soldier grinned. "And as I said, we'll know."

 _We should've worked out what we were going to say,_ Joe thought distantly. _We had all that time, I should've talked about it with Martin. Made up a story._

The questions continued. "I believe that we've established you weren't there by accident – no matter how much you refuse to admit it. The next question, then, is _why_ you were there. What were you hoping to accomplish, hm?"

"Nothing. Nothing. We were looking, that's it."

"Looking for what?"

"Just… stuff. Nothing special. We wanted to see all the guns and equipment— AAH!"

The other shoulder this time, another huge kick. His back arched against the wood. He was starting to get dizzy, again forced himself to breathe. _Gotta get out of here. Gotta think of something to tell him. What's not important? What can I say that'll—_

"What did you take?"

"I don't know."

"You don't _know?_ "

"I mean, I didn't take anything. Maybe other people did."

"So there were people with you," Forman said quietly, eyes sharp. "You admit it."

"No. Yes."

"Then tell me who they were. Tell me what they stole."

"I, I don't know." He shook his head.

"Really?"

"Yes!"

 _Zap!_ The baton touched his arm. Every new shock hurt in a different, more vicious way. He clenched his fists. _Don't tell him._

"Why did you run, Joe? It all comes back to that. If you hadn't _run_ , I might've been inclined to think you're telling the truth."

"We… we panicked. That's not a lie." His tongue was heavy in his mouth. "We didn't want to get caught. We thought… this… might happen."

The lieutenant glanced about the room. "Well. You were right about that, at least. Still, we do believe that you removed some important information, and we would _definitely_ like it returned." He swiped the stick across the table and it brushed against Joe's fingers.

Somehow that was the worst. _Aaah!_ His whole arm spasmed, jerking up, the leather biting into his wrist. His hand felt paralysed, fingers locked and quivering. _Breathe. Focus on something else, anything._ Despite the cold, a trickle of sweat was running down his neck. Muscles ached. And then he heard a scream – for the briefest moment he thought it was his own, but no, someone else's. It lasted for a second, then was abruptly cut off. It sounded like it was from the next room.

_Martin? I hope not._

Forman noticed his expression. "Ah, yes. That's right. I wonder what sort of questions they're asking your friend. I hope he's being a bit more cooperative than you are, for his sake. Because here's the thing, Joe." He sat forward on his chair, voice harsh. "You've caused a lot of damage. That fire stunt of yours destroyed a lot of important equipment, a lot of crucial information. Because of that, we _will not hesitate_ to go after your friends. To go after your family. What we are doing here is bigger than you and them. They are collateral."

"No… they didn't do anything."

"But you did."

"You can't—"

"No, we can. Who set the fire?"

Bruises were starting to form on Joe's leg from the first couple of shocks. He groaned inwardly, preparing for the worst. "I don't know."

"I'm warning you."

"I don't _know!_ "

"Joe, you are making me very _fucking_ angry."

"I'm serious, I don't know who set the fire! It wasn't me."

"So you're telling me that the fire, which started EXACTLY the same time as you broke into our lab, had nothing to do with you," he growled.

Joe nodded. He shrank back in the chair and—

"God- _damnit!_ " Forman leapt to his feet and _slammed_ his fist on the table. It shook under the impact and Joe twitched, turned away. "I've had enough of this. Get that injection in here NOW!"

A few seconds later the door swung open. A harried-looking medic in a lab coat strode through, followed by another two guards. They immediately grabbed Joe's shoulders with rough, gloved hands; if he couldn't move much before he _definitely_ couldn't now. The medic took something and held it up to the light, staring at its contents.

It was a syringe. Inside was a few millilitres of clear liquid.

Joe's eyes widened. _Not good. Not good._

"I'm sorry it had to come to this," the lieutenant said, standing back. "But we have to ensure your cooperation. I'm told the side effects aren't too… severe."

Joe immediately pushed against the restraints, struggling with his legs, trying to slip his arms free. The guards held him down, crushing weights on his shoulders. _What the hell's in it? Some kind of drug?_ The doctor flicked the tip of the syringe a couple of times, then bent down towards him.

"Hold still," he murmured softly.

Joe grunted as he tried to pull away. "Let… go!" He twisted against the chair but it didn't budge. The needle twinkled under the lights. It came closer. Closer. "Stop it!"

"Hold still." The medic prepared to jab it into his arm. Joe kept struggling, kicking but it was useless. All the panic in the world wasn't going to help him. He strained hard as he could, pain shooting through his skull. Forman stared emotionlessly from across the room. Joe watched the needle, hyperventilating, preparing for that sharp, mosquito-like bite and whatever it would do to him after—

Suddenly, the door opened. " _Stop!_ Wait!"

The lieutenant whirled around. A new voice. A woman. Blissfully, the world paused: the two guards, gripping Joe's shoulders. The medic, holding the syringe, about an inch from his skin. The muscles tensed and quivering in his neck. The new arrival, looking flustered as she stood in the open doorway.

"What?!" Forman growled impatiently.

"New orders. Regarding _him_." The woman nodded at Joe.

"Fine. Hand them over." The lieutenant held out his hand and the woman gave him a couple of folded printouts; the medic stepped back, syringe pointing at the ceiling. For the moment.

Joe let out the breath he'd been holding, relaxing the _tiniest_ amount. _Ugh. Holy crap._ He licked his lips, trying to focus on something else. The woman kept glancing at him in a curious, vaguely concerned way. She was young, wearing a white coat, with a dark shade of long blonde hair tied in a neat bun. Her accent was strange; European. Scandinavian, maybe. She looked relatively friendly, which was a nice change. _Although appearances don't mean much. Those 'new orders' might be even worse._

_Huh... For some reason, I think I've seen her before. Where?_

Forman stood silently, skimming through the papers. He was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Most were stamped with a thick red symbol.

Abruptly, he looked up. "These are genuine?"

"Yes."

"From West Coast Command?"

The woman nodded. "Just came through."

"Hm. Fine. I don't like this one bit. But fine." He took the shock-stick and slid it back into his pocket. Joe watched, remaining cautious. Carefully, the lieutenant folded the papers, scrunching them up into a ball; then tossed it irritably at the chair.

It bounced off Joe's chest, skittering across the floor. "Looks like it's your lucky day," he said evenly. "I don't know _why_ , and I don't know how, but apparently my superiors have other things in mind for you. Saved you in the nick of time."

_Other things?..._

The lieutenant strolled he reached the chair, he paused, glancing down at the restrained boy. There was no warmth in those eyes. "Joe?"

"…y-yeah?"

"Just remember – at some point, that luck is going to run out. You'd better hope I'm not around when it does."

And with that, the lieutenant stalked out of the room, his footsteps fading down the corridor. After a slightly confused moment, the medic nodded at the two guards, who knelt down to begin untying the leather straps. It wasn't long before his legs were free, and he moved them experimentally, enjoying the sudden freedom.

Joe blinked. _Is… is that it? What happens now?_ He turned in his seat, looking for—

She was standing in the corner. Watching. Waiting. His mysterious blonde-haired saviour. Now she was calmly polishing her glasses, rubbing the lenses with the sleeve of her coat, but she seemed to sense him looking at her – and, for the briefest of instants, she met his gaze.

She winked.

* * *

The jeep pulled up in front of his driveway, wheels squeaking to a stop.

"This yours?" the driver grunted.

Joe nodded. He grabbed his bag from the back seat and slung it over his shoulder (they'd finally returned it, along with his proper clothes). He glanced at Martin, sitting on the other side.

"I'll… see you tomorrow, I guess," he said quietly.

"Yeah. Bye."

Joe opened the jeep's door and slithered out, shoes slipping on the wet pavement. _It's been raining._ He walked onto the grass, then turned to watch as the jeep drove off. He waved, but wasn't sure if Martin saw him. _We'll be OK… probably. Honestly, I'm expecting a couple of nightmares tonight._ He coughed and began trudging up the driveway, limping a little on his right leg. That bruise wasn't gonna go away any time soon.

"Joe?"

Jack Lamb was standing at the front door. "Oh my god." He ran down the front steps two at a time, still in his police uniform, hair damp and messy. He enveloped his son in a brief hug, thick arms squeezing a little _too_ hard. "Where the hell were you?" he asked worriedly. "The school called, said you be being treated for, for _smoke_ _inhalation_ or something? What happened?"

"It was…" He looked down. "It wasn't that bad. There was a fire at the base, nothing to do with us. A few of us were too close. They were just being cautious."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I promise. I'm fine."

"If that's all it was… well, as long as you aren't hurt." Jack shook his head. "You have _no_ idea how worried I was. I knew I shouldn't have let you go—"

They were interrupted by a loud bark. Suddenly, Lucy came bounding round the side of the house, leaping across the grass. She skidded to a stop in front of Joe, panting happily.

"Hey, Lucy." Joe smiled and scratched the dog behind her ears. Her tail thumped like a jackhammer.

"See? Everyone's happy to see you." Jack chuckled. "Come on, let's go. Pizza's gettin' cold." He patted his son on the shoulder, ushering him towards the door. Inside, however, Jack wasn't quite as carefree. Something didn't seem right about this. Something was… missing. _You never were a good liar, Joe_.

 _But deal with that later._ For now, it was time to stop being a policeman, and to start enjoying being home.

* * *

Martin waited on the shadowy sidewalk, watching the jeep's headlights cut a trail through the night. It rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill, then disappeared, the faintest hints of sunset still visible on the horizon. It took a long time to get dark at this time of year.

Slowly, he turned towards the house and began walking up the garden path. The windows were filled with warmth, light spilling from behind the curtains, and the crickets were out in full force. Everything would turn out okay, hopefully. He hadn't told them anything they didn't already know; neither had Joe. It'd be fine. He had one hand on the doorhandle, about to open it when – he stopped. Listened. Through the wood, he could hear raised voices.

"— _what did you do that for? I was about to fix it!"_

" _It's been sitting there for years! When were you going to do that, huh?"_

" _This weekend! I had to work extra to pay for—"_

Martin stood there for a long moment. Then he sighed, and stepped back from the door. Silently, he slipped his hands into his pockets; then sat down on the damp front step, staring out at the road. The voices continued. He tried not to listen.

They were arguing, as usual. Something would have to break eventually. And then, maybe… maybe things'd get better, or at least they'd get more honest. It was hard, trying to imagine the future. Hard, and probably pointless. _Just do your best when the time comes. Till then, it might be sad for a little while._

Somebody was moving in the garden. He looked up and saw his sister coming up the path towards him, sports bag swinging from her shoulder.

"Hey," she said casually.

"Hey." He shuffled to the side to let her through. She wiped her shoes on the mat and slipped inside, the screen door swinging shut behind her. Martin gazed at the street and the row of houses opposite. He wasn't particularly hungry anymore. _Could use some aspirin for this headache, though._ Dew glistened on the grass.

A few minutes later, the door squeaked open again. He glanced up and saw his sister looking down at him; she smiled, a little encouragingly. Martin shrugged and turned back to the road. Wordlessly, she sat, and put an arm around his shoulder.

Brother and sister waited on the steps, watching the stars go by.

* * *

Rachel was sprawled under the covers, fast asleep – until her father got home. He stepped into her bedroom and turned on the light.

"Rachel. Wake up."

Her eyes flicked open. It didn't take long to overcome her brief sense of disorientation, and she sat up, staring inquiringly at him. He seemed tired, suit crumpled and worn. "Did you just get back?" she asked.

"Yes."

"It's late." She glanced at the clock on her wall. Rain drummed steadily on the roof, beckoning her back to dreamland.

"I know. Do you know anything about what occurred at the base today?"

"I – no. What?"

"This is very serious, Rachel."

He definitely sounded serious. Wearily, she rubbed her eyes, forcing himself awake. "I haven't heard anything."

"Okay. But I saw your friends there. They were there, right in front of me."

"I thought that was for a school trip?—"

He shook his head. "You don't understand. They were sneaking around one of the restricted labs – on their own. Four, five of them. The group you've been spending time with."

"…Oh." For a second, she was stunned. "I… don't know."

"Rachel, tell me. _Please_."

"I said I don't know! Really. They…" She trailed off. "They don't trust me yet. They never mentioned any of this. Are they in trouble?"

"I'm not sure. I think one or two might have been caught, but I didn't hear what happened after that. Something _did_ happen, though. Something dangerous. You need to tell me if they – _what_ they're doing. Do you understand?"

She nodded nervously.

"It's for their own sake. I'm not trying to hunt them, but they shouldn't get involved with… whatever this is." He swallowed. "And neither should you. It's dangerous. In the future, if you hear anything, tell me – then I can figure out a solution, stop this from going further. There's another officer, Forman, who's supposed to deal with these sorts of things."

"Okay."

"Promise me?"

"I promise."

"Thank you, Ryoko. That's all I needed to hear." He leaned down with a slight smile and kissed her on her forehead. "I'm sorry I woke you. Early morning tomorrow."

He was nearly about to leave when she decided to speak up. "Dad?"

"Yes?" He paused in the doorway.

"There was one strange thing. There's a… cube, that they have. Small, and white. It feels odd. Like it might be part of something larger. A machine."

"Where'd they find it?"

"In the forest."

"Hm. Interesting." Her father frowned, and disappeared down the hallway.

Rachel lay in bed, thinking. Dad had a reason to be protective; they'd been running their whole lives from different things that chased them. It was hard enough already, without leaping head-first into yet more peril. And now, he was with the army – if that couldn't keep them safe, what could? It didn't take her long to fall back to sleep.

Her dreams were of the past: a different base. Sitting in a classroom with other children, all dressed in white, half-finished puzzles on the tiles.

_'Are you ready?'_

Their teacher standing before the huge barred windows, sunlight throwing her shadow across the room.

' _Are you ready?'_

Running down the grim hallways, hide and seek, dark, light, dark, light, the ceiling impossibly high above.

_'Are you ready?'_

The grass catching at their legs. Reaching the fence, then starting to climb, metal biting into her hands and feet. Her brother climbing beside her, clad in white. Spots of blood on his shirt. The sky red. She looked back over her shoulder fearfully, expecting at any instant to see—

_'Here I come!'_

* * *

In his own bedroom, Joe was sleeping too. His feet poked out from beneath the sheets, dangling off the end of the bed. Lucy lay on the bed beside him, her paws sprawled across the blanket. It had been a long day. His mind, however, was far away, on a train platform in the hills.

It looked exactly as he remembered it – before the train had blown it up, anyway. The station was small, a two-room weatherboard building mounted upon a wooden platform. The outside, though it wasn't used much, was well-maintained, with clean windows and new benches to sit on; ivy had crept up the wooden railings on either side. Around it was a wide, rolling field, dotted with bushes and low fences. The single train-line arced through the grass, rails glowing silver in the moonlight.

Now, he was standing in the middle of the platform, facing the eastern side. He smiled. There was the spot they'd parked the car, all those nights ago; Charles would've put the lights _there_ and _there_ , running the cables under the wood. There was the corner they'd set up the camera, to film that first, magical scene.

He turned around and noticed Alice standing on the other side of the station. She was leaning against the railing, her back towards him, gazing at the red signals in the distance. Joe walked towards her, feeling the brisk night air on his skin.

"Hey," he said.

She whirled around. "Joe?" For a second she was confused – then her face burst into a smile. "Oh my gosh, thank god you're okay!" She threw her arms around him, drawing him into a hug of fierce relief. "What are you doing here?"

"Um… dreaming, I think."

"Oh." She stepped back cautiously. "Are… are we dreaming?"

"I don't know." _Am I dreaming?_ He gazed at his surroundings a little more closely. It seemed real enough, but also slightly distant – like a gradually-fading memory. _A nice memory._ "I'm pretty sure _I'm_ dreaming," Joe said, grinning. "I don't know about you though."

"I think I'm dreaming too." Alice stuck out her tongue. "So there. Do people in other people's dreams think they're dreaming? Sorry, that was a weird sentence. You understand what I'm saying though, right?"

"Yeah. And… I guess not."

"Huh."

"This is weird."

"Sure is." She put her hands on her hips. "Maybe we're in each other's dream. That would be pretty cool."

"Yeah. Yeah, it would." He smiled. The world seemed… vague, for some reason. Tranquil. _This is where I put her makeup on,_ he realised. _That first night, right where we're standing._

"Tell you what," Alice said brightly. "How about you tell me a secret – something I couldn't possibly know in real life. Then we'll know if this is real or not."

"Um… real?"

"You know what I mean."

"Alright." He racked his brains. "How is this gonna work? Do I just—"

"Any secret. Anything you haven't said."

"Honestly, I think I've told you most of mine already."

She rolled her eyes. "C'mon, there has to be _something_ , Joe."

"Well… there is one," he said eventually. "I _could_ tell you what I'm getting you for your birthday. That'd work, wouldn't it? Sorry for ruining the surprise."

"Uh – sure, I guess."

"Or I could tell you my high score on Space Invaders. That's easy to—"

"No, no, it's OK." She laughed. "Now I'm curious."

"Alright." Joe leaned closer. He paused for a moment, then whispered something in her ear.

Slowly, Alice's lips spread into a smile. "I'll look forward to it," she said softly. Then, gently, she took his hand in hers, and together they waited for the sunrise.

* * *

Alice lay under the covers, deep in a dream, moonlight shining on her face. Her eyes were closed and she breathed deeply. One hand lay across her chest, moving with her breathing. The other was outstretched beside her, fingers curled around an invisible shape – almost like she was holding someone else's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It appears that everyone escaped that particular predicament relatively unscathed (plus or minus a bit of mild torture, which, let me tell you, was kind of weird to write). I wonder how much longer that'll last…
> 
> In other news, chapters 22-29 are supposed to form the first 'act' of the story. The problem is, that's only the first act of FOUR, meaning this thing is gonna be loooooonnnng. Too long. Way too long. Ah, well. It's not like I've got anything else to do.*
> 
> Other notes:  
> -There is absolutely no consistency between the school's classes, layout, teachers, etc. I recommend that you don't think about it.  
> -The story "remember, tonight we're gonna run till dawn" is some of the best 2,000 words I've ever read about Super 8. Check it out!
> 
> *Actually, I have many, many other things to do. But I guess I enjoy this whole writing thing.


	28. The Echo

* * *

" _The Russians are moving. Preparing."_

_"What does that mean?"_

_"Exactly what I said – they've launched a new training exercise in the Bering Strait. Ships, planes, the whole set."_

_"Do you think they know more than they're letting on, then?"_

_"I'm not sure. But most of our assets in the capital have gone dark._ Something's _happening, and it's probably not good."_

_"Hm. Ominous. The Japanese have been active, also; they found something, in a village on the north island. We haven't been able to get a peek yet."_

" _I see. So everyone's getting jumpy. What does the PM think about all this?"_

" _He's not worried."_

" _So why are we_ _worried?"_

" _Because have you SEEN that pale-faced bastard? He knows a lot, sure, but I wouldn't trust him farther than I could throw your mother."_

**\- Shorthand notes of an unidentified conversation, found in an Ohio gas station**

* * *

Joe was finding it difficult to concentrate in class. Not because it was boring, or uninteresting, but after the previous day's events it would've been hard to concentrate on _anything._ Their maths teacher stood at the front of the room, chalk scratching the blackboard with quick, sharp jabs, steadily filling it with differently-shaped triangles. They were no longer focusing on probability; this week, it was all about trigonometry.

 _Triangles. Man. Who knew you could learn so much stuff about triangles._ He looked down at his notes, which were a mildly incomprehensible spiral of angles and sines and cosines.

When he looked up again, Lieutenant Forman was staring at him. The officer was standing at the front of the room, arms folded, right beside the teacher. She couldn't see him, of course. Joe doubted that anyone else could either.

"Hello Joseph," he said.

Joe didn't reply. He blinked, but the image of the Lieutenant stubbornly refused to disappear.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Joe?"

 _No. No there isn't._ He tried to focus on the blackboard, the teacher's voice. _I'm not crazy._ The Lieutenant stepped forwards. Now he was standing next to Preston's desk. Joe had to suppress the sudden urge to cry out. Forman's smile hovered above the neatly-pressed collar of his uniform.

"There's an easy way and a hard way. Which one do you want to choose?" There was a click, a soft _buzz_ , and a black stick appeared in Forman's left hand.

Joe shivered. _Get a grip. He's not there, you're safe. Write some more notes._ But when Joe reached for his pen, he noticed he couldn't move; noticed that he wasn't sitting in his plastic school chair anymore, but something dark and heavier, his wrists and ankles were bound to its surface with tight leather straps—

"Joe, did you have a question?"

It took a moment for his mind to clear; to understand that he _was_ holding his pen, sitting in a warm, familiar classroom.

"Ummm… no, sorry. Just thinking."

Their teacher turned back to the board, chalk circling another angle. "Alright. Well, let me know if you're lost – that goes for everyone else, too."

Joe shifted in his chair anxiously. He stretched his shoulders, biting his lip a little. The slight pain was comforting, somehow. Real. Slowly, the minutes passed, with the faded echoes of nightmares.

* * *

"You OK?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, mostly," Martin replied.

"Bad dreams?"

"Nope. Only some sore muscles."

They walked around a parked school bus, filled with squealing elementary schoolers, then past the entrance to the 7-11 (without Charles and his Twizzler addiction there wasn't any reason to step inside). Joe hadn't walked home with Martin very often, he realised, which was odd, since their houses were in roughly the same direction. _I guess usually someone else is with us._ It didn't take long for the crowds of kids to thin out, the voices gradually replaced by birdsong and the distant groan of the steel mill.

"And what about… the other stuff," Joe began.

"You mean my parents?"

"Yeah."

"Honestly – it's fine. I didn't know it at first, but I'm kind of used to it. I just want something to _happen_." Martin thought for a moment. "I talked to your dad about it, actually."

"You did? When?"

"I called him up one night to ask if what my dad was doing is 'illegal.'"

Joe frowned. "And?"

"Turns out it isn't. Not in Ohio, anyway. He said my parents had to sort it out themselves."

"Oh."

"That about sums it up," Martin grunted. He rubbed his leg, wincing painfully. "We should've brought our bikes like everyone else."

"Cary _did_ offer us a ride, y'know."

"No way. Are you insane? We would've been killed going around the first corner - you've seen how he rides that thing."

Joe grinned, as did Martin. But, something wasn't quite right – there was an edge to it, a hint of falseness. He looked away. _Martin never said much about what happened at the base... Never asked_ me _about it, either. Maybe he doesn't want to remember. That's fine. I mean, I don't want to focus on it too much myself. But I can't help it, because we made it out, sure, but – what if we hadn't? What if we were still there? It's a stupid question, I know it's stupid. So why can't I stop thinking about it?_

_Despite being afraid of nearly everything, Martin might be the strongest of all of us._

"Hey, remember that spelling bee in sixth grade?" Joe said suddenly.

"No. Why?"

"You and Preston were the last two left in it. You spelled 'abscess', and he spelled 'Betelgeuse', then you misspelled the word 'confidante' but Preston spelled it right, so you got second place and he got first. Then he went on to win the district and came in third at states. You don't remember that?"

"Oh, right! Yeah, of course. He even gave me a poster with that stupid word on it. ' _Confidante: a person to whom secrets are confided_.'" Martin rolled his eyes. "I'll always know how to spell it, I guess. Why bring that up?"

"No reason. It just… popped into my head."

"Okay." He sighed. "Although now I remember I lost the spelling bee, so thanks."

"Happy to help."

They trudged up the hill, towards the sun. A couple of cars sped past in quick succession. The knowledge that they could run down the other side always made the climb slightly more bearable.

"But it was so big for Preston," Martin continued. "We were all cheering for him."

"Yeah, we were."

"Then Charles threw a tomato at him when he lost."

"That too."

"And then there was that blood siblings thing…"

"The 'what' siblings?" Joe frowned, confused.

"Blood siblings."

"Like, your sister?"

"No, no. Remember that time the five of us were chasing fireflies in Mr. Rodriguez's backyard, and we all tripped over that tree stump and skinned our knees? And then I said we should all be blood siblings?"

"So… we rubbed our bloody knees together? Gross."

"No! Preston said that it wasn't sanitary, so we all just said that we were going to be blood siblings – permanently."

A long-buried memory floated to the top of Joe's brain. "Wait. Wait, I remember now! Man, that was ages ago."

"Not that long."

"At LEAST five years."

"Yeah, you're right. I suppose that's pretty long." Martin stared at his feet, shading his eyes; they were almost at the crest of the hill, early-autumn sun glaring down at them.

"I was thinking about that moment yesterday, actually," Martin said. "During… you know. It made it better."

"Yeah." Joe nodded. "It's cool. Thanks for reminding me."

They smiled faintly, sharing the memory. Joe thought back to the cold, dark cell, Martin sitting beside him, about as far apart as they were right now, and realised – yes. It did make it better. _And, for the rest of our lives, it's something they can never take away._

* * *

It turned out that the others had escaped the military base without too much incident. Charles, Cary and Preston had managed to join up with the rest of the school group, running into them at the bottom of the observation tower, and were rapidly evacuated from the base grounds as fire spread from building to building.

No one wanted to talk much about it for a few days after that. However, it was still there, at the back of the mind. Charles worked on his movie script. (He was very protective, keeping most of it secret). Cary hid the notes and photographs they'd stolen under his bed, locked inside a piggy bank. Perhaps it was their imagination, but the military patrols around town seemed to have slightly increased once again – more black helicopters flying overhead, more glimpses of olive-green trucks parked at the end of the street.

There was another question, too: Alice had apparently asked for Rachel's help in activating the cube. No one was quite sure how they felt about that. Of course it was nice (in a way) to have someone else on the team, after spending so long keeping secrets; but how much could she help, really? And, more importantly, how much could it go wrong?

* * *

Rachel glanced at the number on the mailbox. It seemed correct. Shrugging, she rapped sharply on the door and stepped back to wait. She didn't have to long. There was the sound of muffled yelling from inside, then weighty, rapidly-approaching footsteps.

The door swung open, revealing a heavy-set man with a round, friendly face and neatly-combed hair. His stomach poked over the waistband of his pants, barely held in check by a tucked-in dress shirt. He looked her up and down for a moment. "You must be one of Charles' friends," he said warmly. "Come on in. They're all watching TV."

"Thank you."

"I'm Mike, Charles' father. And you are?"

"Rachel. From school."

He gave her an appraising look. "Ah, so _you're_ the mysterious Rachel. Charles has told us quite a bit about you."

"He… has?"

"M-hm."

Rachel followed him down the hallway, towards the source of the noise. It soon opened up into a wide-open living area; kitchen at the far end, dining table on the left, chairs and sofa to the right. It was busy. The carpet was strewn with discarded toys – plastic tools, puzzles, Tonka trucks – some of which were being swooshed back and forth by two identical boys (Rachel assumed they were Charles' younger brothers). She looked around curiously. The room had a bright, technicolour decor, red and yellow and green. The table was covered in towering piles of clothes, which were currently being folded by a bookish brown-haired girl. She glanced up and gave Rachel a nod. _Sister?_ Two more unseen figures crossed the hall behind her, laughing and screaming, adding to the bedlam.

Her friends were watching TV in the corner, sprawled on assorted cushions. She crept up behind them, staying quiet (though she didn't really have to try). Charles was in the middle, anxiously leaning forwards, arms crossed. Cary next to him, half the size, feet tapping on the couch. Martin was a head taller than everyone else, even hunched over. The other two were sitting by the window – Alice on the sofa, Joe half-leaning against her legs. She was twirling a lock of his hair between her fingers, round and round, round and round. Rachel wondered if it was annoying; Joe certainly didn't seem to mind. Martin glanced at them, rolling his eyes, and Alice poked her tongue at him.

There was a news report on the television – about the base fire, by the looks of it. A grim-faced man stood next to a barbed-wire fence, thick plumes of smoke rising into the air behind him. _"—the fire caused unprecedented damage to the Springfield Air Base, with the final damage bill expected to be in the tens of millions. It appeared to begin in the main administration building early on Wednesday afternoon, quickly spreading through several unsecured fuel reservoirs and—"_

"That was _you_ , Cary," Charles whispered.

"I… yeah. I know." Even he didn't seem very enthused. "It wasn't supposed to be that bad."

"Do you think anyone died?"

"Shut up, Charles."

_"—suspicions that the blaze was deliberately lit, but military spokespeople have declined to comment at this time. Fortunately, no fatalities have been reported, though several firefighting and army personnel are said to be in critical condition, having suffered severe burns—"_

"That's something, I guess."

"Yeah." Cary shook his head. "It wasn't supposed to be that bad," he repeated.

"It wasn't your fault," Joe murmured.

"Actually, Joe, it _kinda_ was."

On the screen, there was helicopter footage of the base: the admin building, the entire top floor on fire, people running and milling around the tarmac. A couple of firetrucks were parked on either side, sheets of water leaping into the air. In several places hangar rooves had been blown clean off, revealing twisted metal and embers underneath.

 _"—and those at the scene have expressed shock at the incident. The question remains, however, if this_ was _an accident or perhaps something more sinister. For now, though, the cleanup continues, with answers expected in the coming days. Reporting live from Springfield—"_

"This is freaky," Martin muttered. "Doesn't feel real."

"Tell me about it," Alice said. "Although I'm not sure if— hey, you found us!" She noticed Rachel watching from the side. The others turned to face her, suddenly all smiles. It seemed like they needed a distraction.

"Yep! Wasn't too hard," she said brightly. "I only got lost once, anyway."

"That's pretty good," Cary replied, "Because Charles somehow gets lost at the doughnut shop twice a week."

"HEY! Uncalled for."

"It's true, though."

Rachel shrugged. "Well, doughnuts ARE amazing."

There was a pause.

"Oh my god, _thank_ you," Charles said. "Someone else who gets it—"

"You're defending him?" Cary asked incredulously.

"I'm not defending him, I'm defending donuts. Somebody has to."

Martin raised his hand cautiously. "I like donuts."

Cary snorted. "Great story. Ugh, I'm never gonna win another argument again. It was bad enough after Alice joined up."

"Cary, I _improved_ things," Alice interrupted. "Because most of the time you're wrong anyway, and additionally, this group is infinitely better with me in it. Don't you agree, Joe?"

"Um… definitely. A hundred percent."

She patted him on the head. "Good boy."

Cary immediately recoiled in disgust. "Ugh! Gross."

"Ew."

"That's just _weird_."

"Oh, grow up." Alice rolled her eyes. "Do you guys… wanna do the thing?"

Charles glanced at her, then Rachel. "Alright. Let's, um – let's do the thing."

* * *

They crowded into Charles' bedroom, with 'crowded' being the operative word. It was a tight fit for a half-dozen fourteen-year-olds, thought Charles at least was pretty used to it. Three of them could sit on the bottom half of the bunk bed while the others took the floor.

"Where's Preston?" Joe asked.

"He said he was busy – 'family stuff.' We'll have to go without him." Cautiously, Charles closed the door, listening at it for a moment like a spy. "Alright." He sat down, legs crossed and looked round the circle. "Cary, do you have it?"

"Here." He placed a sheet of paper on the floor. It was a short list of instructions.

"Good. Alice, got the cube?"

She pulled it from her jacket pocket and threw it in the middle of the circle.

"Awesome. Martin, did you find the kit?"

"Eventually. It was in the attic and covered in spiders, but I thought of you, Charles, and found the strength to push through."

"Now who's being weird," Alice murmured.

Martin placed an old cardboard box on the carpet. ' _Hobby Electronics Kit_ ', it said, ' _Ages 13 and above._ '

"Great. Thanks. Now, Rachel…"

"Uh – yes?"

Charles swallowed. "Alice said you were good at electrical stuff. Putting things together, I mean."

"Sure. If you're talking about simpler setups."

"Maybe we are? I hope we are. In any case, you're probably way better at this than us, so we were wondering if you could help… connect… this cube."

Rachel paused. "Connect?"

"Yeah. It's a long story, but apparently it might, um, do something if it's wired up in a certain way."

"That cube feels like plastic; it shouldn't conduct electricity in the first place."

"I thought so too," Martin explained, "but it might be different to normal material."

"O-kaaaay?" _What does that mean?_

"So can you help us?" Charles asked hopefully.

"I can try, sure."

"Awesome!"

"No promises though."

"Hey, that's OK. A 'try' is all we need." Charles grinned, handing her Cary's piece of paper. "These are the instructions; how do they look?"

Briefly, she scanned the sheet. It wasn't anything special – just some standard wiring diagrams with printed notes beside them. The symbols appeared to be mostly familiar, arrows for currents, a few zig-zags for resistors, parallel lines for capacitors.

"It looks… fine," she murmured. "Nothing too complicated. Pass me your kit. I'll get started."

* * *

Rachel searched through the box for a resistor with the correct pattern. With resistors, their strength was indicated by a series of coloured bands on the side; the trouble was, the bands were _super_ small. At least Charles had dragged his desk lamp onto the floor, providing a bit more light. She looked beneath a cardboard flap and discovered the desiccated husk of a house spider. Apparently Martin wasn't joking.

Eventually, she found the one she'd been looking for and held it up. Five kilo-ohms; it matched the diagram. With a couple of alligator clips, she connected it in parallel with another set of wires, one end attached to a battery, the other attached to a nodule on the edge of the white cube. At the moment, the circuit looked almost like a starfish – five wires, each branching out from the cube in the centre. _I have absolutely no clue how this is supposed to work. The voltages are completely wrong. Then again, I'm not exactly an expert._ She turned back to the box, this time searching for a capacitor – much fatter than the resistors and thus easier to find.

The others watched her curiously, chatting amongst themselves. Alice had followed along for a while, but had gotten lost somewhere half-way down the page. The source of the instructions was also intriguing:

**PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE**

**DO NOT REPRODUCE**

_Now, where would you get your hands on such a document? If I had to bet, it might be from a nearby military installation. One that recently burned down, perhaps?_ She found the correct capacitor and slotted it in. This component went after the resistor and was usually used to store electrical energy. _Why here? Who knows._

 _I should_ really _ask them what this is about._

Rachel noticed that she was getting to the end of the list. The circuit still appeared deceptively simple, no more complex than the doorbell she'd constructed at school. _Of course, that's ignoring the cube's part in this, and that's the most important._ Two more wires went in, connecting two arms of the 'starfish' into a coppery web, and then another battery, providing more power to the cube. Finally, she came to the last step: an inductor. If she remembered correctly, inductors were used to store magnetic fields, and the circuit was asking for a big one. Martin's old kit didn't have one of the right size but it _did_ have two with half the capacity, so she added them together and decided to hope for the best.

 _And… done._ She looked over her handiwork, spread across the carpet. It was messy. Messy, but functional. She turned over the paper, making sure the other side was blank.

"That's it," she said softly. "As far as I know."

Swiftly, the others shuffled over.

"Looks… messy," Cary said.

"As long as it works, who cares," Charles retorted. He glanced at Rachel. "Do you have any idea what it'll do?"

"No."

"Great," Joe replied. "Although that's never stopped us before."

They peered diligently at the circuit.

"How do we turn it on?" Charles asked.

"Switch." Rachel pointed.

"Oh." Slowly, Charles reached for it with his finger. When it was about an inch away, he paused. Exhaled. "We should do this. Right, guys?"

"Right," Martin said.

"Right," Alice echoed.

"Okay. Okay." He started muttering under his breath. " _Pleasedon'tkilluspleasedon'tkilliuspleasedon'tkillus—_ "

Click!

There went the switch. For a second, nothing happened. Then—

There was a burst of light, and the cube transformed.

Or – more accurately – it _unfolded_. The segmented faces and tetrahedrons that formed the cube began to shuffle, moving, sliding round each other in impossible ways.

"Woah," Martin breathed. "How is it—"

In a strange way, it reminded her of those brainteaser toys her mother used to buy. The shapes within were shrinking, expanding, gaps growing wider and splitting and making new faces. Light glittered. Surfaces merged in a web of movement. The device made an odd rattle as it danced on the carpet, like an insect.

Cary couldn't decide whether to move closer or further away. "What's it doing?"

 _Becoming what it was meant to be_ , she thought.

Now, the cube was a different: a collection of silvery pieces that were clicking together, slipping against each other, the matte white surface becoming shiny and clean. Wires and components tangled around it. The thing spun. Gradually, it settled into a shape – a featureless, chrome rectangle. It was slightly concave with rounded corners, glinting brightly under Charles' desk lamp. Its surface shivered a little, like a drum.

Then it was still.

 _Zap!_ The battery sparked and burned out.

Rachel stared at it, sitting quietly on the carpet. _I… saw this_ , she realised. _I saw it transform, when Alice first gave me the cube. Except this time it isn't in my imagination._

"So, uh… I have to go," Cary said slowly. "My parents asked me to be home before five. But, uh – call me if any other weird shit happens, OK?"

"OK." Charles blinked. Despite his announcement, Cary didn't move.

_How does that work? How did I know what would happen?_

"That's an actual, real piece of ali— future tech," Joe murmured.

"Yeah."

"What do you think it does?"

"Beats me," Charles replied. "Alice? Martin?"

"No idea."

"Don't look at me."

They gazed at the silver rectangle for another long moment. It twice as long as it was wide, and lay innocently in the middle of the circle surrounded by scattered components. It didn't seem possible that it had, a minute ago, been something completely different.

Suddenly, there was a thump on the door. " _Charles? You in there?"_

"Oh shit, my sister." He leapt up, grabbed the handle. "YEAH! WHAT?"

" _Mom wants you to help with dinner!"_

"Okay! In a minute!"

_"Hurry up, then."_

Charles gave them an urgent glance. "We should talk about this tomorrow after school. Usual place?"

They nodded. "Usual place."

Rachel was aware she didn't know where the 'usual place' was, and assumed this meant that she wasn't invited. _I could ask… but if they aren't ready it makes it awkward. I've only known them for a few weeks. Don't ruin it._

Her eyes narrowed slightly. _Soon, though, I'm going to figure this out. And then-_

_Then what?_

* * *

There were definitely more soldiers in Lillian. Over the next few days, patrols passed more and more frequently, and guards arrived at night to block off the streets near the cemetery. Nobody was quite sure what the air force was doing there. Presumably, it was important.

That night before Joe went to bed, he checked the view outside his bedroom window. Across the street, a little further down, was an army jeep parked on the curb. It sat just outside the glow of the streetlights. He squinted. It appeared there was someone sitting inside.

 _Hard to tell._ Honestly, though, he'd been kind of expecting it. _We've escaped them before, we'll escape 'em now._ It wasn't like the military could ignore them after everything they'd done. He drew the curtains firmly and lay down in his bed, and it didn't take too long to fall asleep.

School continued, same as ever. He had his first test of the term for history and thought he did pretty well in it. They began playing volleyball in gym. Late-afternoon English lessons felt like an eternity. Martin barfed all over his locker for what had to be the tenth time. Quickly, yet so gradually you didn't realise it, the newness of the year became routine, an endless procession of classes, teachers, students, homework. Against a backdrop of larger problems, everything at school – even Todd's continued dickishness – seemed trivial.

And walking home with Alice was always nice.

* * *

The usual place: Carol's Diner. It was fairly quiet during the awkward gap between lunch and dinner, benches mostly empty, kitchen staff chatting behind the counter. The old paint and creaky chairs had the familiar, baked-in scent of food that was slightly too greasy, which always made Joe a little happier (and hungrier). Everything was the same shade of comforting, homely brown.

They sat by the window, sipping on glasses of water. Charles had a plate of fries – sharing with Cary this time – and Martin had ordered some kind of blueberry muffin. Preston had managed to make it too (for once) and was flipping through a copy of yesterday's _Lillian Journal_.

"Here." Charles grabbed the silver rectangle from his backpack and put it on the table. "It actually does stuff."

"Like what?" Alice asked.

"Like this." He hastily glanced behind them to make sure no one was watching, then wiggled his fingers a couple of inches above the rectangle. As if in response to his presence, the surface lit up – a faint indigo glow that seemed to follow his movements.

"Huh," Preston muttered. "That's cool."

"That's not the only thing." Cautiously, Charles touched it with a finger. The device emitted a soft ' _bloop!'_ sound, like a pebble being dropped into water. Ripples of blue light spread from the point of contact.

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it again, utterly lost. "What the heck?..."

Joe frowned. "Is it metal?"

"See for yourself."

Charles slid it to him across the table. Casually, Joe traced his name on the surface, watching the light follow his finger. _Bloop!_ The glow seemed to come from… within, somehow, from a place far more distant than the object's three-centimetre thickness. It did _feel_ like metal, at least. Cold. Smooth. Polished steel, perhaps. Shrugging, he gave it back to Charles.

Beside him, Alice grabbed a chip.

"Hands off!" Cary hissed.

Alice gave him a _'what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it?'_ look. "Guys, I think we've seen this before. Tell me if you agree, but… it looks a lot like the metal the alien's ship was made out of."

"Oooh, that's true!" Preston said. "It would make sense if it was the same. They both come from those cubes, after all."

"Which came from space," Joe said. "Somewhere."

"Space… I can't believe we're actually holding something from _space_ ," Cary whispered.

"Well, technically we're from space too," Preston replied. "Everything is. We're all aliens, when you think about it."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It makes _total_ sense."

"Do we actually know anything useful, though?" Martin asked. "I mean, blue lights are cool, but does it— Charles, _why_ are you organising your ketchups?"

Charles looked up defensively, part-way through arranging a neat line of ketchup packets. "Because."

"Who does that?"

"It's so I can get to 'em easier. It's more organised."

Martin shook his head. "…and you are my friend."

"Guys, guys," Alice interrupted. "On topic. This thing responds to touch, right? What if we try… touching it in different ways?"

"Just like you try touching Joe in—" Cary began.

Alice pinned him to his seat with an impressively venomous glare.

"Okay, okay. I'll shut up. Jeez."

"As I was _saying_ ," she continued, "we might be able to give it – commands, or something. Like a computer."

"Ooooor the blue lights are only there to make it pretty," Preston said.

"Maybe," Joe conceded, "but that doesn't sound like what a super advanced alien race would do."

"Yeah, you're probably right." Preston reached out and placed his palm on the warped surface of the rectangle. An azure outline surrounded the edges of his fingers. _Bloop!_ Then, unexpectedly, the shape flashed; a blue line flared to life on the metal beneath his skin. It moved back and forth, steadily, repeatedly, as if it was… _scanning_ him, somehow. "That's strange. Did it do this for you, Charles?"

"No… no it didn't. Although I never tried touching it like that. With my whole hand, I mean."

The blue light flickered around Preston's fingers. "Maybe you should have, because this feels exceptionally weird."

"Like what?" Charles asked.

"Like my skin is in a bowl of Jell-O— aah!"

Preston whipped his hand away as the device rattled on the table. Quickly, it started to transform again, bumps and squares whizzing about on its surface, forming – buttons? They looked like buttons. The upper section of the metal became slightly darker, reflecting the sky outside.

It began to beep.

_Beep!_

Loudly.

_Beep!_

"What's it doing?" Martin hissed.

"Beeping!"

"Cary, I'm not deaf."

With every tone, the darker section of the rectangle lit up: a kind of blue, fuzzy circle that faded as rapidly as it appeared.

_Beep!_

"How do we turn it off?" Alice asked.

Joe glanced at her. "Should we turn it off?"

_Beep!_

_Beep!_

The mysterious rectangle kept flashing, showing the same vague, blue image. Preston reached out to touch it again—

"Shut it! Shut it up!" Cary said urgently.

"Why?"

"The waitress is coming!"

They whirled round like startled meerkats. One of the staff was strolling towards them, an empty tray in her hands. A few of the other customers were also staring with faintly curious expressions.

"Preston, touch it again!"

"I am, I am! It's not doing anything!"

"Touch it harder!"

He grabbed its sides, swept his fingers over every surface but nothing changed. _Beep!_

"Quick, give it here." Alice held out a hand and Preston chucked it to her as if the metal was red-hot. She placed her palm on it. "…Nope. Any ideas?"

"How are we supposed to know?" Cary said. "We're not aliens!"

"Ah – technically we are."

_Beep!_

Martin leaned over. "Put it in the bag!" he said.

"What?"

"Just put it in Charles' bag, it'll hide the noise. Hurry!"

Fumbling, Alice gave it to Charles, who grabbed it and snuck it under the table (almost knocking over a glass in the process). He unzipped the backpack at his feet and dropped the device inside, resealing it fast as he could.

_beep_

The sound was still there, but much softer. Casually, they sat back, relaxing on the old brown seats. Charles grabbed a chip, crunching it loudly in his mouth. Alice sipped her water.

A moment later, the waitress stopped by their table. She smiled, scanning the scene. "Everything okay here?"

"Yeah, we're good." Charles smiled back. "These fries are amazing."

"Aww, that's nice of you to say."

_beep_

"You boys hear that?"

"Hear what?" Cary said innocently.

"Hm." She frowned, tilting her head. "Well, you call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Thanks. We will."

The waitress sauntered down the aisle, making her way to the next occupied booth.

Martin exhaled, a mixture of relief and confusion. "We _can't_ keep that thing with us," he said firmly.

It beeped in reply.

"All we need to do is figure out how to switch it off," Joe said. "Then it's fine. AND we need to figure out what it's actually telling us. How hard could it be?"

"Extremely," Preston replied. "Exceptionally, extraordinarily, remarkably hard. Or it could be super easy. Who knows." He shrugged.

Slowly, Cary took another chip. "I've been thinking…" he began.

"Thinking? You?" Martin said disbelievingly.

"Yes Smartin, _thinking_. The face of the silver thing – it kinda reminds me of a submarine."

"Um… how?"

"It's the sonar screens. You know how they're a circle, with a line that scans the water? And when a ship's detected, there's, like, a fuzzy dot on the display? There was a submarine movie on TV a few nights ago and I thought the alien thing looks sort of similar. With the dot, I mean."

"Hm." Charles ducked his head under the table, rummaged around in the bag for a moment.

_Beep!_

"Yeah, I see it," he said, voice muffled. "Cary's right. For once."

"So what do we do with it?" Alice asked. "If it's a radar, or sonar, or whatever – which we could be completely wrong about, by the way – what is it trying to find?"

"We follow it to find out," Joe suggested. "Or at least try and use it some more."

"Woah, we're not following _anything_ till we know it's safe."

"Then we keep it for a few days," he said. "Watch what it does. Maybe it'll do something different."

"I… guess that works. For now, anyway."

_beep_

The five boys and girl gazed across the table, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

"Hey, _I'm_ not keeping that thing," Martin muttered. "That noise is gonna keep me awake all night."

Preston shook his head. "Me neither. My parents are way too nosy."

One by one, they all turned to stare at Charles. For a second, he tried to resist – then slumped back in his chair, defeated. "Fine, whatever. I can put it in the shed out back."

"Thanks, Charles," Cary said brightly. "You're the best."

He sighed. "Can it, shorty."

"What did I say? Now, let's stop talking about freaky alien shit. Who wants more of these fries?"

* * *

"Guys, guys. It's time to practice the big lie," Charles announced. "Just in case."

"What lie?" Martin asked.

"The emergency ' _I have to go to Charles' house right now because the alien sonar is being crazy_ ' lie."

"Oh, that one."

"I think we should keep it simple. Maybe… here, what about this. 'Hey mom! I'm spending the night at Charles' house so we can play a neat, brand new board game!' Okay, you go."

Alice sighed. "Really? That's your lie?"

"Don't have to be fancy if it works."

"Yeah, sure. 'I'm going over to Charles' house to play board games.' Is that okay?"

"Great. You next, Joe."

"Umm… and I'm sleeping over at Charles' house. So we can play a new board game."

"Practice it. Cary?"

"And I'm sleeping in your mom's bed, NOT playing board games."

Charles threw a chip at him.

* * *

The rectangle stopped beeping when Charles was approximately half-way home. There didn't seem to be a reason why; it simply… stopped.

Until it didn't.

Before going to bed, Charles ducked outside to make sure the thing was hidden. He was about to open the garden shed when he stopped. Listened.

_BEEP beep BEEP beep_

"What the hell?..."

* * *

Joe glanced left and right, checking the darkened street. A few houses still had lights in their windows, but the rest were grey and lifeless. Quarter past eleven according to his watch. He rolled his bike over to Charles' side of the road, taking care to avoid the streetlights' glow.

"Hey! Over here!" Charles waved. He was crouched down beside a hedge, the mysterious device in his hands.

"What's up?" Joe whispered. "You said it was doing something… different?"

"Yeah, listen. The pattern's changed."

Charles was right. Instead of a single, louder beep, it was making one loud and one soft at twice the speed. The 'screen' still displayed a fuzzy blue dot; _but the dot seems to be in a different place…_

"What do you think it means?" Charles asked.

"Not sure. Where are the others?"

"Didn't call 'em – I thought we could probably handle it ourselves. And you live next door, so…" Charles grinned. "Also, Martin gets really pissed if you wake him."

"True. What's the plan?"

"I thought we could just ride around in circles and see if something changes."

"Um… sure. Why not." _It's not like we have any better ideas._ Joe grabbed the handlebars of his bike while Charles climbed on to his own. He looked away, hiding a smile. _Just like the old days._

* * *

_Beep! Beep. Beep! Beep._ Charles had duct-taped the rectangle to the front of his bicycle, glancing down at it occasionally as they rode.

"Anything?" Joe called out.

"Nope!"

Their bikes sped quickly through the dark, sloping streets. Mulberry Lane curved down the hill before them as a velvet ribbon in the night, empty but for the whir of their tyres on the pavement. Trees and rooves lay against distant skies, rendered in delicate shades of grey. The sky was featureless, blocked by low cloud – perhaps a warning of incoming rain.

They crossed the next junction, intersecting with the road that led past Dr. Woodward's old house. Someone had bought it, apparently; the for-sale sign out front was covered by a red 'X'. The other houses, though, were all reassuringly familiar. Some were brick, some were wood, but all were painted with the same watery colours.

_Beep! Beep. Beep!_

_So here we are_ , Joe thought. _Following a random noise around town because we think it's an alien radar. I thought life was gonna get LESS weird once school started._

 _How does this any of this make sense? If it's an alien machine, why did it switch on when_ we _touched it? Did it only need the batteries to charge up? Is that why the alien stole all that electrical stuff for its ship? And let's not forget that we found this thing in the first place through a shared dream of a place we'd never actually been to._

"Wait! I think there's something…" Charles paused. "Yeah. Listen!"

The first, loud beep was identical, but the alternating beep had risen in pitch – like it had climbed one note of a piano. "What's the screen doing?" Joe asked.

"It's changed! The circle's less fuzzy, and – it's in a different place. Wait a second." Charles peered at the device, still pedalling. "If this thing's a detector, it's pointing in another direction. Take the next left."

At the bottom of the hill was the parking lot behind the church. They took the footpath and circled round it, passing over patches of sand and sawdust. Soon the path rejoined the road, this time leading east, towards the school. Clipped lawns and bushes whizzed by on either side. Joe's legs were starting to burn and he stood up for moment, letting gravity do the work.

_Beep! Beep._

"So how's it going with Alice?" Charles asked over his shoulder.

"It's… great. Really great."

"Yeah? You guys spend a lot of time together."

"Sort of. Do we?"

"Feels like it."

Charles didn't sound particularly upset; just curious. Still, it put Joe a little on edge. He was never sure if Charles was hiding something inside or if he really had moved on. _Problem is – we argued about it once, and now he's too mature to say anything. Maybe he thinks he can't, 'cause we're friends._

"I guess we do talk a lot," Joe said.

"That's cool. I'm happy for you."

"Thanks." He coughed. _Still a little_ _awkward._ "And sorry about… you know."

"Don't say that. You guys… you guys suit each other," Charles said eventually. "If it was me, we'd probably just annoy each other the whole time."

"Really?"

"Dude, of course! You've seen Alice, she can out-argue Cary these days. I _can't_ let that happen to me."

"So you're saying it works because I'm quiet," Joe said.

"Maybe. It… works. That's all. And don't forget, you guys probably wouldn't be together if it weren't for me."

The beeping rose another tone. The mix of the two notes was slightly unnerving.

"We need to get on to Loftus Street," Charles said. "Have you kissed her yet?"

"I, uh. Hm."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I'm gonna assume that's a yes."

"Alright. Fine. We have." The night air felt very cold on his cheeks.

"How many times?"

"Charles, is that _really_ relevant?"

"It's totally relevant. If it was me, I'd be telling _you_ about it twenty-four seven."

"Lots, alright? Lots of times." Joe sighed.

"Wow, you're doing better than I thought. Was it good? Come on, tell me!"

They skidded around the corner, barely missing a stop sign. Charles looked down at his handlebars and saw that the radar circle had shrunk again; it was pointing straight ahead. Joe reached out, let his fingers run along the fence beside them.

"Yes, it was nice."

"Nice?" Charles asked.

"Yeah. Nice. How's it going with the script?"

"Pretty well, actually. I got lots done last night. Also, I realise what you're doing and I don't care."

"I'm only asking about the movie," Joe said innocently.

"Yeah, yeah. The next scene's really important, though. It explains a lot about what's happening."

_Beep! Beep._

"The time travel thing? That's good, because I _still_ don't understand it."

"Well, at least you don't feel the need to bitch about it like Martin. So basically, Alice goes to find this scientist who—"

Suddenly, the sound went up again. Then up. Then up. The screen became almost perfectly clear, a blue dot on a dark grey background.

"What the…" Charles frowned. He slowed down, hitting the brakes, till they were moving barely faster than brisk walk.

 _Beep! Beep. Beep! Beep._ The second tone was now an octave above the first, still climbing.

"Where's it pointing to?" Joe asked.

"At the park, I think."

They came to a stop. To their right was Apex Park – one of the places they'd run through on the night they'd met the alien, bullets and rockets flying all around them. Joe recalled the sight of a huge tank rolling across the field, crushing play equipment beneath its treads like paper, and felt a slight shiver.

"Come on, let's leave our bikes here," Charles said. He took the silver detector, tape tearing free with a loud _rrrrip_ , then vaulted over the park fence.

Joe followed. Nothing appeared hazardous, at first glance. The park was flat. Open. A few trees. The grass was soft and springy underfoot, and the playground was utterly deserted. _I'd hope so, at this time of night._ Sometimes a few older kids would turn up late on the weekends, sitting on the monkey bars clutching suspicious paper bags.

 _Beep! Beep._ _Beep!_ Charles led the way, holding the metal rectangle out in front of him. They crossed the basketball court, stepping through the playground. The tone kept rising. Charles turned to the left.

"We're getting close," he said. "It _is_ like a sonar. The circle marks a destination."

"What sort of destination?"

"Dunno." Charles ducked underneath a swingset. "But I think it's right over… here."

He stopped in front of the slide. It was red, not quite three metres tall, the plastic smooth and faded from use. He got down on his knees, holding the detector close to the dirt, and the tone shot up in frequency so far that it was almost too high to hear.

In the distance, a dog barked.

"This is it?" Joe asked.

"Sounds like it." They stared downwards. Instead of trapdoor, or a mysterious cave, the alien device had led them to a patch of dirt beneath a playground slide; the grass there was still slightly burned and black from the battle a few months prior. "There's nothing there, though."

"Unless it's buried."

"…unless it's buried," Charles repeated. "I'm starting to see a pattern here." With a grunt, he grasped the rectangle in both hands and stabbed one corner into the dirt.

Joe blinked. "Wait. What?"

"Do you see anything _else_ we can dig with?"

He couldn't. Grimacing, he sat down next to Charles and started excavating with his hands. Luckily, the soil was relatively sandy, making it easy to work through. _Beep. Beep! Beep. Beep!_ The radar's ever-present whine was starting to become a little irritating, especially as everything else was so silent. Except—

Another sound. An engine.

"Charles, stop."

"What?"

"Someone's coming." Joe tilted his head, listened. The throaty rumble was rapidly approaching. Seconds later, a powerful glow of headlights appeared at the top of the hill. "Get down!"

They flattened themselves against the dirt just as a military jeep crested the rise. It was moving relatively slowly, maybe twenty miles an hour; rolled along the road, coming closer. Unfortunately the slide wasn't an ideal hiding place, though their clothes blended in fairly well with the shadows. _First car I've seen for a while._ _They'll only spot us if they're paying attention._

Joe watched the jeep, lying on his stomach. He imagined a pair of soldiers sitting inside, peering into darkened windows or across the shadowy field. He ducked his head as the lights swept over their position – night briefly turning into day – but the vehicle didn't stop. _Maybe they're only passing through._ Soon enough the jeep disappeared, houses blocking it from view.

Joe got up, brushing the dirt off his jeans. He turned around to—

Lieutenant Forman was _right there._ Grinning on the other side of the fence. He leapt back, stumbling on the grass.

"Joe? What is it?" Charles asked.

He blinked. When he looked again, the park was empty. "Nothing… thought I saw someone."

"God, don't freak me out like that."

"Sorry." He swallowed. His heart thumped against his ribs.

"Help me dig, I think it's almost done."

"Yeah, sure."

The hole grew bigger. As it turned out the alien rectangle made a decent shovel, and it wasn't long before the edge of it tapped against something hard buried in the sand. Joe dug his fingers around the object and pulled it free, held it up. He shook it a couple times, bits of dirt falling from its surface.

Charles wrinkled his nose. "Ugh. Really?"

It was a cube. Small, palm-sized, same as the others. The radar device was going haywire, its screen flashing a constant pale blue. _Of course it's another one_ , Joe thought. _Because that's how this works, isn't it? Everything starts out as a cube, then converts into something else._

"Aliens must like cubes," he murmured.

"But what's it doing in a _playground_?" Charles wondered.

"Maybe it fell here by accident? Put 'em together."

"What?"

"Put the cube and the silver thing together."

Charles gave him a doubtful glance. "If you say so." He laid the detector on the ground, then took the cube and touched it to its surface.

_Bloop!_

"Woah…"

Instantly, the cube was _swallowed_ by the silver, as if it were made of honey. Charles reflexively drew his hand back. Once more the rectangle rippled blue, a web of light following unknown programming. Joe was about to have a closer look when suddenly dozens of tiny protrusions appeared on the silver shell; in unison, they whizzed around onto its rear side, coming together to form a thicker, shorter rectangle, slightly offset from the original.

"Okay. So now we have _two_ rectangles," Charles muttered.

"Stuck together. Maybe it—"

The object's screen flared to life. On it was another blue dot, somewhere different. _North-east._ Then it began to beep again – louder. Clearer. _Beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep!_

Charles picked it up, turned it over. There wasn't even a seam around the added component; it was like it'd been moulded from a single solid piece. The square 'buttons' on the face were nearly flush with the surface. "I can't decide whether this makes lots of sense or no sense at all."

Joe shrugged. "It means we have to follow the signal, doesn't it? We can find more pieces, then put them all together. Now we know it works, at least."

Charles glanced at him. "Ha. I bet this is right up your alley, model nerd."

 _I didn't actually notice the similarity, although when you say it like that…_ "Sure. It gives us something to work towards, too. A goal."

"A goal of… what, though?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters!" Charles said firmly. "If – or when – we finish it, what then? I don't have a clue what this thing might do."

"I don't either. But this is the biggest clue we've ever got our hands on," Joe insisted. "We can't just… not do anything with it. It's obvious we're supposed to find the pieces. I _don't_ think it's gonna hurt us."

"So what if we're making some kind of doomsday machine?"

"…Are we?"

"I don't know. That's the point! I'm just saying we should be careful." Charles sighed. "I wanna make sure we're doing the right thing. Like Alice said, it could be dangerous. I thought it would be OK to try this tonight, only you and me, but when the others are involved… I don't know if I wanna keep poking it to see what happens. Everything it does is completely unexpected."

_Beep-beep-beep!_

Joe glanced around the empty park. Like Charles, he wondered what they were doing; what they were actually trying to achieve by following an unearthly echo through their sleeping hometown. The silver machine seemed to dance in the moonlight, one segment of an unknown whole. _We're… investigating,_ he decided. _Searching for the truth. However long it takes us._

"Charles."

"Yeah?"

"Remember that promise we made on the water tower?"

"I… guess, yeah. Stick together. Stay alive. Tell people the truth."

"Exactly. That's what we agreed. And – hey. You're still our leader, you know? You might not think so anymore, but you are. Everyone listens to you. If you don't think this is right, then we'll stop. We promised."

"Okay." He sniffed.

"But, if it helps… I feel like this is a good thing to do."

"Yeah." Charles paused. "I'm not sure why, but… me too, I think."

They stared at the device, as if waiting for confirmation.

None came.

"Come on," Charles mumbled. "We'd better get back." Wordlessly, they started trudging across the park, back towards the fence and their waiting bikes. The machine beeped. The stars glittered. "I hope you're right, Joe," he said quietly.

_Yeah. So do I._

* * *

" _Another body has entered the containment zone."_

_"Who?"_

_"A girl. Journalist. She's written some feature articles, works for a magazine."_

_"Understood. Do you think she'll be a problem?"_

_"No, not unless there's an accident. The situation is under control. They're searching the tunnels as we speak."_

_"Good. However, you are authorised for lethal force."_

_"Confirming: proceed with lethal force?"_

_"Confirmed. If she so much as sticks her nose into this mess, kill her."_

**_—_ A tape recording of an unknown conversation, discovered in a locker at Yasogami High School**

* * *

Rise gazed out over the town of Inaba, spread out before her on the low-lying plains.

Her boss had told her not to come, of course. What were his exact words? Oh yes: _'If you go to that god-forsaken town I'll fire you. There's no story there! You're wasting your time! This is YOUR decision, Rise, and I'm trusting you to make the correct one!'_ He'd been very firm about it.

Problem is, that only made her want to go more. Because even the blindest of the blind could see that a story _was_ underway in Inaba, and when even her magazine's editor was telling her to drop it, it meant that someone very important was involved. Too important.

_I'm here now. Make the most of it. You can worry later about whether you still have a job._

Inaba, from a distance, was typical for a mid-sized settlement in Japan; it sat in the embrace of fertile floodplains, the Samegawa River cutting a path through its centre. Fields and rice paddies surrounded it with alternating shades of green. The town itself had a population of five thousand, evidenced by the sprinklings of houses and a single multi-storey department store. It was a sheet of crumpled paper – flat but irregular.

The peculiar part was the fog. The entire town was covered by it, a thick, choking layer of grey damp cloud. It rose from the streets and the fields and the river, finding its way down chimneys and through slightly-open windows. Pedestrians disappeared like ghosts into the mist. Edges became faded, indistinct blurs.

It looked like Inaba was sinking.

In the distance, a power line had fallen – one of the big steel towers that carried electricity along the coast. Emergency vehicles were parked in a ring around it, sirens piercing the haze. Other vehicles were guarding it too. Military, perhaps?

Rise squinted, trying to make out more detail. There was something… unsettling about this. A strange feeling in the air.

The town seemed dead, she realised. Quiet. Decaying.

Only the fog was alive.

* * *

She walked down the main street of Inaba's shopping district. It was a pleasant, gently-curving road that meandered past a range of local stores – a tofu shop, a diner, a textile place, an electronics dealer. Most appeared to be doing relatively well, though a few stores at the northern end had their windows boarded up. To her left was an old shrine, charms and chimes hanging from its tiled roof.

The haze made it less pleasant. It was impossible to see more than ten metres ahead, and the atmosphere had a thick, soupy texture that caught at the back of your throat. Sound, smell and sight were all muffled, creating the impression of a trance, or daydream. It was bad enough when visiting for the day; she couldn't imagine what it was like to live in it.

The townspeople hadn't been very helpful so far. Most excused themselves as soon as she stopped them, running off to perform various errands. Those who did pause to answer her questions gave very little in the way of concrete information. Some people wore cheap, eerie-looking gas masks. All had an unnerving dullness in their eyes.

" _When did the fog first arrive?"_

" _Maybe a month ago. A while."_

" _Do you know what might have caused it?"_

" _The government says it's a natural problem."_

" _Have you seen anything strange lately?"_

" _No, no. Everyone stays inside nowadays."_

She kept walking, past another intersection. Here was a bookshop, lights shining from its windows. Two children ran past, chasing each other down an alley. There was still life in the town, still presence; so why did she have the feeling that something _else_ was going on?

Rise stopped at the next payphone and dialled a number. Its artificial jingle sounded strangely cheery.

It didn't take long for the other person to pick up. A male voice: _"Hello?"_

"Yosuke, it's Rise. I'm at the town."

_"Oh, you are? Thanks for calling. What is it like?"_

"It's… strange. I'm not sure why yet."

 _"That's awfully unspecific."_ She imagined him rolling his eyes on the other end. " _I still don't understand why you had to go_ gallivanting _off to the country to chase another mystery. Other people could've done it! Why you?"_

"Because other people didn't want me to. And you saw that video, what happened at that kid's birthday party – someone sent that to _me_. I can't ignore it."

 _"I knew you were gonna say that._ " Yosuke sighed. _"And yeah, it is pretty freaky."_

"I'm glad you agree. Also, I'm probably not going to have I job when I got back."

_"What?"_

"Yeah, probably got fired."

_"Why?! How? Does this mean you're going to be mooching off MY paychecks now?"_

"Sure, isn't that what boyfriends are for? Bye Yosuke, I'll call again tonight."

_"Rise! wait—"_

She hung up on him, which was an act she always found uniquely satisfying. _Okay,_ she thought. _Where next._ Rise ran a finger through her ponytail – _needs another wash –_ and stepped out onto the road.

A figure was walking towards her through the mist. A child.

"Hello," she called out. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Uh – sure. Okay." It was a girl, she realised, and not quite a child – more high-school age. She had long black hair beneath a read headband, and pale, porcelain skin.

"I was hoping to ask a few questions about the town," Rise said conversationally. "For a magazine story."

The girl nodded.

"Great. What's your name?"

"Yukiko."

"Can you remember when the fog first arrived, Yukiko?"

"The end of June. It was just after the school campout." Her voice was shy. Wary.

"And since then, have you noticed anything strange about it?"

"No, not really… only the fact that it's stayed around for so long. We sometimes get thick fogs in this region, but they only last a few days."

"So this one's different."

"I… guess." The girl glanced up, met her gaze. "It's more the people who're different. They don't know how to react. Some people think the world's ending, or that it's a government conspiracy – I don't, of course."

"I see." Rise jotted a couple of sentences in her notebook. "Seen anything else weird? Beside the fog?"

"Um. There _were_ some sinkholes that appeared at Yasogami High. Cave-ins. Some of the floors collapsed. The army came and helped clean it up."

"Yasogami High. Is that your school?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks." Rise paused. "One last thing. There's a video going around, I was wondering if you've seen it – it's a kid's birthday party."

Quickly, the girl glanced away. "A birthday party?"

"Yes. At the end there's an… animal, of some kind. It's quite distinctive."

"I don't think so," she muttered. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

Their sleeves touched as Yukiko brushed past her. Rise watched the girl hurry away up the street, tempted to follow, but her distinctive red headband soon vanished into the haze. Footsteps faded, swallowed by silence, until there was nothing.

Nothing but the mist.

* * *

_Brrriinnnggg!_ The 3:30pm bell reverberated across Lillian Middle School, signalling the end of the day. Cary and Preston walked through the gap behind the Arts building, taking a shortcut back to their lockers.

"My brain is _completely_ fried from Spanish class," Cary said. "My mom said it would be an easy elective – guess I'm never trusting her again. You never did Spanish, did you? No, that's right, you did _Latin_. Even worse. Nerd. But Spanish is hard, trust me. _No puedo hablar español_." He sprayed syllables like a machine gun. The Arts building and gymnasium rose a couple storeys on either side, creating a kind of shaded alleyway; a chocolate wrapper fluttered across the ground and Cary skipped forwards, kicking at it with his foot.

"What even is Latin?" he continued. "Who speaks Latin anymore? No one, that's who. Sounds like a useless language to me. Hey, you ready for the new scene Charles is planning? He said he wants to film in the camera shop in about an hour... although I guess he probably told you already. I get to be the scientist character though, which is pretty cool. Not as cool as zombies, obviously. I keep telling him to put some zombies in but he doesn't listen."

Preston didn't answer. He stared straight down as he walked, head bowed.

"Anyways, he gave me my lines last night so I could practice. And what he told us about the silver thing is gnarly, isn't it? Joe seems to think we have to follow its signal which means my sonar theory was totally correct. Preston?"

Cary stopped. The other boy kept walking for a second, then spun to face him with a vaguely startled expression. "Wh-what is it?"

"What's the matter, dude? You're spacing out. Even _you're_ tired today?"

"Haha, yeah. Even me." There were black smudges under his eyes.

"You're the one who keeps telling me work hard all the time," Cary said. "How come you get to be so worn out?"

"Even I…" Suddenly, his voice snapped. "Even I get tired sometimes Cary! God, seriously!"

Cary opened his mouth in shock. "Um… Preston?"

"I – sorry. Sorry." He closed his eyes. Took a breath. "Hey, I think I left something in the classroom. You go on ahead. I'll see you later."

He turned and started trudging back down the alley. Cary stared after him, confused. "Hey! Where are you…"

Preston threw up a hand in some kind of half-wave, but otherwise didn't reply.

"Huh." Cary thought about following him for a moment, then decided not to bother. _Ten bucks says he's feeling better tomorrow._ He shrugged, then continued in the opposite direction. _The earlier I get out of this place the better. Ugh. School._

Occasionally, Preston did get a bit snippy. Cary supposed it was the price of having all those brains – they had to get mixed up and do weird crap SOMEof the time. Otherwise it was just unfair. _Probably one of those times,_ he thought. He scratched his ear. _It's not the same when_ he _gets angry though. It's fine when Charles is pissed off, or Martin, but if it's Preston or Joe… it feels weird._ Another piece of rubbish floated down the alleyway and he stamped on it with his foot. Dried leaves were piled along the sides, blocking a couple of dark drains.

Gradually, he became aware of somebody following behind him. It wasn't uncommon for people to use the shortcut, but this time it seemed—

He glanced over his shoulder. "Preston?"

No, not Preston. A muscly kid with blonde hair, and another kid next to him.

 _Oh. Great._ Cary stopped in the middle of the passage, then showed off his teeth with a goofy smile. "Hey, Todd."

It seemed like they weren't in a talkative state of mind. The pair advanced towards him down the alley, Todd in his basketball uniform, the other guy – _his name's Nick, isn't it? From the next grade up_ – with ripped jeans and a jacket tied round his waist. He had a huge forehead and clipped brown hair, kept short with an army-style buzz cut. Todd looked his usual magazine-cover self.

_Balls. Balls balls balls. I should run._

Running would've been the smart thing to do. Cut your losses; live to fight another day. Don't be a hero. Cary, though, found himself doing the opposite – instead, he planted his feet firmly on the ground, glaring at them both.

It didn't help. Todd retorted with a glare of his own. Nick ground his teeth, cords shivering in his neck. They exchanged a glance, full of meaning.

The two boys came to a stop a couple of metres away from him. They were a lot bigger than he was, Cary noticed. A lot bigger. _God, sometimes I hate this puberty shit._ It was basically as unfair as facing the Incredible Hulk. Todd grinned a smarmy little grin, as if he'd had the same thought. Inwardly Cary rolled his eyes. _I can't believe Alice used to date this clown._

_The smart thing to do would be to run RIGHT NOW._

Against his better judgement, he opened his mouth. "Hey Todd?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd _really_ appreciate it if you stopped being a dick to Joe."

"Sure," he said. "I'll take that under consideration." Then he shot forwards and punched Cary in the face.

His head snapped back like a whip. "OW!" Stars exploded in a burst of white light, groggy pain briefly overwhelming him. He stumbled back, clutching his forehead. "What the _fuck_ was that for, you dickhead?!"

"No reason."

Cary was distantly aware of Todd coming forwards. He managed to right himself – _look on the bright side, pretty proud I'm still standing –_ and got his hands up in time to block the next blow. Todd's fist glanced off his shoulder and even then it made half his arm go numb. He spun sideways and staggered into the wall; quickly lashed out with his foot as hard as he could and managed to kick him in the stomach.

 _Whack!_ "Ooof!" Todd doubled over, gagging in pain – or possibly surprise. It was hard to tell. Cary took a few of quick breaths, trying to get his eyes to focus again. It _hurt_. Where was Nick? _No time to worry about it._ Run? _Probably should_. He charged forwards and smacked into Todd shoulder-first, which didn't do much except make him angrier. An elbow caught Cary in the ribs and he yelped; instead of retreating he dodged sideways and threw himself onto Todd's back.

"Rrrrgghghg!" Cary grunted.

"GET – OFF ME!"

"Rrrgh! No!" He wrapped his arms and legs around the taller boy's chest, holding on for dear life. Todd was grabbing at him, slapping at him but couldn't get a good shot. Cary squeezed, scratched at his singlet, was rewarded with a gratifying _rrrrip_. He was about to start using his teeth when a huge weight slammed into his back. _There's Nick_. The impact drove the air out his lungs. None left. He wheezed, coughing madly but kept his grip. Todd was spinning. The world was spinning. Then the weight got its arms around his neck and started pulling.

"Crazy asshole!" someone growled.

Cary's lungs were screaming at him. With one final gasp he had to let go, fingernails tearing a last scratch in Todd's shoulder. The arms threw him down onto the ground, hard, his back cracking as it hit the concrete.

And that was the end. His head swam. Cary raised his arms above his face as two shadows stepped over him.

 _I tried, Joe,_ he thought sadly. _I tried. At least I got some good hits in._

_This is gonna hurt, isn't it._

It did.

* * *

"What in the world happened to _you_?" Alice asked. "It looks like you were dragged through a trash compactor."

Cary groaned, leaning against the wall. "That sounds about right. How do I look?"

"Like shit," Charles said matter-of-factly.

"Well, replace 'trash compactor' with 'worst shortcut _ever_ ' and that's why." He sighed. "My dad is gonna kill me."

"I feel like he'd take you to hospital first," Joe murmured. "Did somebody beat you up or something?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just some stupid bullies, in that alley behind the Arts Center. Don't worry about it."

"But you—"

"Or do worry. Whatever. I'm fine, I only need a second." Cary groaned again. Using one hand, he felt the space under ribs, wincing as he touched a sore spot. "Aah."

He really did look terrible, Joe thought. A couple of cuts, a black eye, dirt smeared all over his face. Grazed knees, too.

"Where's Preston?" Charles asked.

"Wait, he's not here? I _was_ walking home with him but he said he had to grab something from class." Cary frowned. "He left at exactly the right time. Lucky."

"Unlucky, more like it – it means he can't help with the scene," Charles replied. "Where is he? Speaking of, are you sure _you_ can help? We can wait until later if—"

"Hey, I said I was fine." Cary pushed off the wall and stood up straight, though was unable to hide a hint of dizziness. "I didn't learn all those lines for nothing. Let's go."

* * *

They filmed inside the darkroom at Olsen's Cameras. Charles had decided to call in a favour to find them a new location, and Donny had been happy to oblige: the darkroom was an appropriately science-y setting, with its ominous red lighting, bottles of chemicals, and half-developed photos hanging from the ceiling. It smelled of vinegar and dry paper.

Cary sat on a stool by the bench. There was a sink next to him, plus a couple of Charles' textbooks. The red light did wonders to hide his battle-scars (though the black eye did give him an unintentionally ghoulish appearance), and he adjusted his lab coat as he spoke.

"It's a theory I've been working on," he continued, in an extremely poor British accent. "Parallel universes."

"Parallel universes?" Alice stepped forwards. Behind her, Martin stood in the corner looking confused. _Not much acting required there._

"Yes. When you travel back in time, it's not ACTUALLY time travel – instead, you're jumping into a different universe that simply exists at that point in the past."

"So you're saying I could be in a different universe to the one which I started in."

"Yes." Cary nodded. "Technically, you wouldn't be the same person anymore. You'd be the other Mary, in the other universe – except that she's identical to you, so… you kind of are the same person, for practical purposes."

Alice took a deep breath. "That's crazy. Insane. _Impossible_. How would you even do that? Jump between two universes, I mean?"

"I don't know. That's what I've been trying to find out. You could be the first person I've met – _if_ I believe your story – who's done it."

"Well, believe me. I know it sounds crazy, but it's…"

"…almost crazy enough to be true," Cary finished.

Charles stood next to the camera, a couple of metres from their position. As usual, Joe held the mike; Rachel sat next to him, reading along with the script (which currently existed only as scribbles in Charles' notebook). The entire scene glowed a deep crimson. Although there _was_ a regular light, Charles had liked the coloured one better - it certainly gave things a distinctive style. Production value, you might say.

"What the _heck_ are you two on about?" Martin asked.

"I'm sorry I can't explain," Alice said quickly. "This is important, just a few more minutes." She turned back to Cary. "I told you about the woman, didn't I, doctor?"

"The one who keeps pursuing you? Yes, you mentioned her."

"Assuming time travel makes sense, why does she keep finding us? Why do the same things happen, over and over again?"

Cary scratched his chin. "I have a theory," he said eventually. "You have to consider our timeline as mostly fixed – call it fate. There may be small changes, deviations, but the path is the path." He leaned forwards. "Sometimes, though, there are divergence points where a choice might change the course of history. _You_ could be sitting at one of those points right now. There must be a trigger, an event that's causing his death – find the trigger, and you've got a chance to change your future. Our future. Something important results from this and you'll have to find out why."

"Find the trigger…" Alice shook her head. "I don't know. I've done this a dozen times and I still don't know."

"The have you considered that whoever's chasing you might be—"

"I'm sorry," Martin interrupted. "Mary, it's almost seven."

"Oh. Thank you." She glanced at her watch. "Doctor, we have to go. You've been very helpful though. I'll come and visit again yesterday."

"Yesterday?... Ah." Cary smiled in understanding. "Please, let me help."

"Help?"

"Yes, by taking me with you! I've researched this, studied it my entire life. If I can _see_ what happens, perhaps I could—"

Rachel knocked on the door.

"That's her!" Alice whispered, instantly alert. "It must be. Doctor, is there another way out?"

"Yes." He nodded tersely. "Follow me." Cary stood up and stepped out of frame. Alice took Martin's hand, checked the pistol in her belt.

"Cut!" Charles shouted. "Great. Almost perfect." As always, there was an immediate sense of relaxation.

"It'd better be," Cary muttered, cracking his fingers. "What is that, like – the fifth time?"

"Sixth. And I told you, this is what they do in proper films. They repeat scenes, over and over."

"Sounds boring," Cary said. "Please don't say we're doing it again."

"Um – nah. I think we got it." Charles clicked open the side of the camera and took out the roll of film; carefully, he put the canister in his backpack, then fished out a fresh one. "The only thing left is some shots of you guys running."

"I don't think I can run, Charles."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Are you okay, Cary?" Alice asked concernedly.

"Fine, fine. You should see the other guy. Haha. Ha." He didn't sound very amused.

"Let's do the rest next time," Martin said. "It'll only take ten minutes."

"Yeah." Joe nodded. "Now we should do the other thing."

 _Here we go again,_ Rachel thought. _'The other thing.'_ The group tidied up in the red gleam of the darkroom, winding up cables and chucking equipment into backpacks. During the quieter moments, when she listened, she thought she could hear something beeping.

* * *

_Beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep!_

Charles held the silver device in one hand, following the signal down an alleyway. Its surface was slippery and he kept having to wipe his fingers.

Rachel walked beside him, eyes narrowed. _They added something to it_ , she realised. _There's another piece stuck to the back. And they figured out how to turn it on, obviously._ The top half of the rectangle was displaying a blue dot, shimmering in time with the noise.

"It's a detector," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Charles replied. "It's activated by touch."

"Then what is it detecting?"

"We're… not sure." He smiled ruefully. "Honestly, I don't know."

"But you're following it anyway."

"Wouldn't you?"

Rachel shrugged. "Probably."

They were wandering down an alleyway between two buildings – Mitch's Hardware and S&A Foods. Every few metres the beeping grew higher. The others followed a couple steps behind. For some reason, Cary appeared a little on edge.

"And this is the cube we found in the woods," she continued.

"It is," Charles said.

"And now it's transformed into something else."

"Please believe me when I say I can't explain it any better than you can. Nobody here's got a clue how it works."

"It must belong to someone, though. An electronics company? A research lab? The government?" She ran down the list in her mind. _It's advanced, incredibly advanced._ _I've never seen anything like it._

"Finders keepers," Alice murmured.

"I don't know if that's how it—"

Charles turned to her, voice serious. "Rachel, just… please don't tell your dad about this, alright? I know I shouldn't ask you that, but – please. It's not military equipment."

"Sure. If you say so."

"Thanks." He smiled.

The alleyway ended in a small courtyard. Stagnant water pooled on bare cement; it smelled faintly of compost, reflecting a still sky. On the far wall, a pair of roller doors acted as a loading zone for trucks.

Experimentally, Charles tossed the alien device into the air. _Beep-beep-beep!_ Its pitch climbed a couple of notches, then fell back down.

"Up, I guess," he muttered.

A maintenance ladder led up the side of the grocery store. One by one, they scaled it to the roof.

More puddles, slowly drying in the sun. The roof of the store was mostly flat, apart from a couple of grimy skylights and a smoke-streaked brick chimney. A single AC unit whined in the corner.

 _What are the chances we're allowed to be up here?_ Rachel thought _. Pretty low, I'd think – yet none of them said a word. They don't_ seem _like a bunch of rule-breakers, but… take Joe, for instance. Clenched jaw. Eager eyes. He looks about as determined as someone who's trying to save the world._

 _Either way, who cares. You've done worse._ She tucked her hair behind her ear and surveyed the landscape. The main street ran beside them, a steady-ish stream of cars driving to and fro. The town's huge blue water tower loomed at their back, blocking the sun and throwing its shadow across the roof.

Charles led them onwards, past the skylight, around the chimney. _Beep-beep-beep!_ They came to the edge of the building. There was a slight, half-yard gap between it and the next, protected by a low railing.

"Do we have to?" Martin asked.

"Yeah. Sorry."

Charles went first – planting his feet firmly, then stepping over. The gap was small enough to be crossed without much effort. Still, Rachel tried not to glance down.

The roof of the hardware store was angled sharply, a sloping series of sheets of corrugated tin. They clambered across it, shoes clanking on the metal. _Beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep!_ The signal abruptly entered into squeaky-violin range. Charles stopped, then turned, walking to the store's billboard.

It appeared the billboard was new. An older, thinner sign lay discarded on the tin; presumably, it'd been replaced after the alien's ship half-wrecked the street. Joe knelt down and lifted it up.

Lying beneath it was a small white cube.

* * *

When Rachel entered the kitchen, she did a perfect double-take. "… _Mom?_ "

The woman turned. "Hi, Ryoko! _Ogenki desu ka?_ "

"I'm… good."

Her mom was a short, thin woman, Japanese features clearly visible in her olive skin and smiling eyes. Her dark hair was tied with a simple bow – a school-uniform habit she'd never quite managed to drop. She immediately stepped forwards to hug her daughter, arms enveloping her in a deceptively strong embrace.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel asked, bewildered. "I thought you weren't supposed to arrive till next month."

She stepped back, hands on hips. "I finished early! It only took a week to sell the house, then another week to pack everything up. It turns out that most people actually _want_ to move to Florida; who knew?"

"So it went well? Moving out?"

"Oh, yes. The trucks should be here in a few days with the rest of our belongings." She gestured around the kitchen. "It _does_ feel a bit bare at the moment, doesn't it? I thought I'd come early and surprise you."

"Consider me surprised," Rachel said. She leaned in close with a conspiratorial whisper. "Actually, I'm glad you're here. Dad can't cook. He thinks he can, but he can't."

"I heard that!" a voice shouted.

Her mother rolled her eyes. "If only he could hear so well whenever I ask him to vacuum. _Baka._ School is going well, then?"

"It's good, so far. I actually just came back from a friend's place."

"Oooh, friends already. And you're… feeling healthy?" She couldn't quite hide the concern in her voice.

"I am, yeah. Not sick."

"That's good."

Casually, her father sauntered into the kitchen. He was still wearing his suit from work; though he seemed exhausted, he was smiling. "Our girl's been doing very well, actually."

"Hi, dad. How was work?"

"Fine, fine. A little troubling."

"Troubling?" she asked.

"Yes, in a sense. I joined the team at just the right time – we're on the edge of something big. Something important. It could genuinely help a lot of people. However, it keeps going wrong. It's a mess." He spread his hands vaguely. "The fire. Missing equipment. Interference. _Russia_. The knowledge is there, it's simply missing a key."

"How dramatic," her mother said.

"I'm not joking," he replied, shaking his head. "It's serious. But, enough talk – I've been anticipating this dinner for _weeks_."

"Out of the way, then! I can't use the stove with you standing in front of it."

Soon, the house was filled with the gentle smells of home. As Rachel worked on her homework, she grinned, a sudden burst of happiness.

* * *

A mile away, Joe was doing the same, a couple of questions ahead. He sat at his desk, leafing through his biology book. _Anaerobic respiration. That's the one_ without _oxygen, isn't it_? A resin Darth Vader figure guarded his pencil case, waiting to be painted.

The silence was shattered by a knock on his door. "What is it?"

"Mail for you!" Jack replied. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

A heartbeat later, his dad appeared beside him. He dropped a white envelope on Joe's desk. "Someone must've put this in the letterbox," he said. "No address on it. Nothin' 'cept your name."

"Really? Huh." Joe glanced at it, mid-way through an answer.

"Could be from Alice," Jack suggested.

"Why?"

"Writing's neat." He looked around, frowning at the piles of clothes and cardboard boxes scattered across the carpet. "Clean your room."

"Yessir."

His dad left. The door closed.

After another minute or two, Joe put his pencil down and picked up the mysterious envelope. It was the standard size, sealed. Only his name was written on the front, in a flowery cursive script. _'Joseph Lamb'._ He grabbed his pencil and slid it into the seal, then yanked it upwards, tearing the fold.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. A note, in the same handwriting:

' _Joseph: I am sorry about what happened the other day. I know you are only trying to help. Nevertheless, you must remember that you are playing a dangerous game. Be careful. I regret that I will not always be there to help you._

' _Also remember that you are not alone. If you need help, call this number: (513) 979-4961. Use the word 'oligarchy' in your first sentence and I'll see what I can do.'_

 _Ollie-garchy?_ Joe wondered. _Sounds like a skateboarding trick._

' _In the meantime, keep doing what you're doing. Every bit helps. And BE CAREFUL._

— _M.'_

* * *

Jack couldn't help listening at Joe's door for a second, then told himself not to be silly. _He's your son, not a suspect. He's only doing his homework._

Even so… he knew Joe was hiding something. The involvement with the military, the late night-time trips with friends, the way he was always so quick to answer; it was a hell of a lot improved from the quiet, invisible Joe of six months ago, but something rang false. His eyes, Jack decided. The eyes always betrayed him. Elizabeth's eyes had done the same.

What mattered, though, was that something was wrong, and that he didn't yet know what that was – bad news, for a policeman. It was slowly starting to feel a lot like the first week of the summer holidays, _and we all know how that turned out_. _Town half-dead with my kid half-dead too._

 _What is he hiding?_ Jack wondered. _I saw what happened here, same as he did. Why doesn't he trust me with… whatever it is that's bothering him? Have I_ still _not earned that right?_

_Or maybe he thinks I won't approve. He's doing something dangerous, and he thinks I'll tell him to stop. That's probably more likely, knowing how those kids behave when they're together._

Jack didn't know which theory he preferred – the one where his own son wouldn't confide in him, or then one where a bunch of children were throwing themselves into peril. _Both aren't too hot, to be honest._

_I should call Louis. See what he thinks. Maybe Alice has been a bit more forthcoming._

* * *

Days passed. Cary's scratches began to fade, though the black eye would stick around for a little bit longer. He still refused to say exactly what'd happened, though Joe had his suspicions. Charles had some of the film developed and started the long process of editing; he showed off a sneak preview of several scenes which looked surprisingly good. Preston was smiling again. Alice thought about her mother.

The alien device had transformed once more. Now, a series of coils protruded from its back, serving almost as legs. They were wound tightly, maybe a hand-span in length, the same bright silver. Whenever the signal beeped, a blue wisp would pulse down each coil, like water along a tube. No one had a clue what the coils were actually for but they all agreed it was pretty cool. And the screen was more like a map than ever before; faint outlines glittered on the metal, as if presenting an unfamiliar landscape.

* * *

Friday night. Military patrols criss-crossed the hills around Lillian. Most were made up of regular vehicles, winding through the forest, though some also included flatbed trucks mounted with what looked like satellite dishes.

The others were preparing. Or most were, anyway.

" _Preston, what's the deal?_ " Charles asked.

Preston clutched the walkie-talkie in one hand, sighing glumly. "I'm not gonna be able to make it. My parents won't let me out of their sight."

" _Why, dude? It's the weekend!_ "

"I know. I even tried the board games excuse. Didn't work."

" _Then…_ " Charles sounded disappointed. " _I guess we can tell you what happens. I thought you'd be here, though."_

"So did I! It's not like I _want_ to be left behind." He took a deep, calming breath. "Look. If I miss this one, I might be able to sneak out next time. My parents are only being annoying."

_"I always thought you had cool parents."_

"They – it's complicated. Just don't do anything stupid."

_"Yeah, yeah: 'what would Preston do.' I'll see you later, dude. I gotta go. Sorry."_

"Bye."

Charles' voice was replaced by static. Preston waited for a moment, then stood up, pacing round his bedroom.

He scowled irritably at the wall. On the other side was the dining room, where his parents were probably sitting right now. Reading the newspaper. Doing taxes. No matter how hard he glared, it didn't help. Only made him angrier. He muttered under his breath, a series of unintelligible swearwords.

Before he knew what he was doing, he clenched his hand into a tight fist and punched the wall next to his head.

It tore right through. _Crack!_ The plaster shattered. Fragments of it fell to the ground, revealing a dusty, jagged hole. Preston blinked.

"Oops."

* * *

" _Do you have a bike?_ " Alice asked.

"No." Rachel shook her head.

" _You're gonna need a bike._ " She thought for a moment. " _I'll ask Charles. One of his brothers should have one you can borrow. Can you be at his place by eight?_ "

"Should be fine."

" _Great. See you then._ "

* * *

They rode through the night, under a rapidly-darkening sky. Six bikes, six kids, wheels humming on the pavement.

"Dude, you're so full of it," Cary groaned. " _When_ did you kiss her?"

"Dude, trust me!" Martin said. "After algebra, she pulled me into the bathroom."

"Wait, wait wait wait – Mannequin Girl?" Charles asked.

"Yeah!"

"Was she good at it?"

Alice leaned sideways till she was riding next to Joe. "Who's 'Mannequin Girl'?" she whispered.

"Amy Brennan," he explained. "It's because her face looks like one of those store mannequins."

"Huh… I guess it does."

"Uh – ehh – B minus," Martin continued. "Location could be better."

Cary shook his head. "How do I know you're not lying?"

"Cary, trust me. Have I ever tried lying about something like this before? I don't even have to reply to you."

"I bet she was doing it for a dare," Charles said.

"It wasn't a dare!" Martin shot back.

"I bet it was."

A flock of birds wheeled overhead, soaring towards the last pink remnants of the sunset. They were on the highway that led south out of town – away from the dense forests and into drier, flatter country. The asphalt arrowed into the night ahead, outlined by yellow reflectors.

Charles and Martin led the pack. Both had torches strapped to their bikes, illuminating a cone of road for the rest of the group to follow. Charles also had the detector attached to his handlebars, plus his Super 8 camera; so many contraptions it almost looked like he was piloting a fighter jet. Behind them came Rachel and Cary, with Joe and Alice bringing up the rear. Everyone was wearing jackets and jeans, guarding against the cold, with sneakers in case they had to explore off-road and backpacks for supplies and water.

Joe glanced into the shadows to their rear. _We are_ literally _in the middle of nowhere_ , he thought. _Miles from home. No one else knows it. Following a mysterious echo into who-knows-where. If I wake up tomorrow NOT in a CIA prison, I'll be happy._

"We haven't seen a car in like, half an hour," he murmured aloud.

"Yeah," Charles replied. "So don't crash."

"Do you guys do this all the time?" Rachel asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"This." She shrugged. "Sneaking around. It seems like you've had a lot of practice."

"Sorta," Cary said. "Alice used to steal her dad's car for us so we could drive places to film movie scenes."

"Hey, that was ONE time—"

Cary frowned. "Wait, why aren't we driving tonight? We could've been done already."

" _Because_ , Cary, I kinda like my dad now. 'Borrowing' his car without asking isn't exactly good daughter behaviour."

Ahead of them a gravel track diverged from the road, barely wide enough for a car or two. They steered on to it, Charles staring at the detector, his face bathed in soft blue light.

"This – this is the way, right?" Martin asked.

"Yeah. This way."

Their bikes rattled. The dirt track was much bumpier than the highway, formed from bits of sand and limestone. Knee-high grass rose on either side as far as the eye could see, dotted by the occasional tree or low bush. Insects chirped in the shadows. They rode for another couple of minutes, single file, following the track as it cut through the underbrush. It was getting very dark.

Soon, the track came to a junction: one path leading left, the other right. Charles rolled to a stop, steadying his bike with his feet; he peered down at the radar.

_Beep! Beep-beep! Beep! Beep-beep!_

"Where to?" Alice asked quietly. They looked out around across the field. It was hard to see much past the range of their flashlights, but at least the moon was almost full.

Cary shuffled over. "You have the map, right? Can I see the map?"

"Left," Charles said.

"Left? Are you sure? Because right looks a little more promising."

 _Ca-caw! Ca-caaw!_ A strange trill echoed over the grass, close.

"Did you guys hear that?" Joe whispered.

_Ca-caw! Caw-Caw! Woo-woo-woop!_

"It's nothing," Rachel said. "Probably a bird."

"Just a couple more miles," Charles added.

They continued riding. Tires bounced on the dirt. Every now and then Charles would film for a couple of seconds to create a record of their route, and teeth chattered as they rode over a particularly vicious pothole.

And then the path ended. Swiftly, it was consumed by the undergrowth, so unexpectedly that there was nearly a pile-up when Charles slammed on his brakes.

"Well this is great," Cary muttered. "Dead end. Told you we shoulda gone the other way."

"Yeah, yeah, give me a second. I'll try and work out where we are."

The others stopped to rest for a moment, kicking down their bike stands. Joe reached around and grabbed his water bottle from his backpack, gulping down a few mouthfuls. He was about to offer some to Alice when—

_Darkness. Blackness. The smell of ash. Then, blinding— beams of fire lancing down from heaven, ground shaking, buildings tearing from foundations. Blue lights glittering in the sky._

Joe spluttered, coughing up water. He scrunched his eyes shut. Took a couple breaths and the image disappeared. He focused on the hard, irregular feel of the pebbles under his sneakers. _Man, that is_ massively _inconvenient… also, kinda freaking scary._

He looked up. At least no one appeared to have noticed his little episode—

"What did you see?" Rachel asked behind him.

He whirled around. "Huh?"

"You saw something just now," she repeated. "What was it?"

Joe paused. "I… how did you know?"

"I used to see things too."

"Oh."

"Your joints locked up," she said. "And your eyes rolled back. My brother told me I used to look like that – frozen for a few seconds."

 _Is it that bad?_ Joe wondered. "It was nothing. Only a memory."

"That's good. Then, at least, you know it's real."

"Maybe." He put his feet on the pedals. Up ahead, the others were getting ready to move. _Somehow, though, I don't think your dreams were anything like mine._

* * *

They pedalled through the grass, going cross-country. Dry vegetation hissed and crackled beneath their wheels, Charles and Martin forging a path up front. _Beep! Beep-beep!_ Their flashlights cast spidery shadows across the night. They were going slow, being cautious.

"I was wondering…" Cary began.

"Wondering what?" Alice replied.

"Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck, or a hundred duck-sized horses?"

Joe choked on a giggle. "What kind of question is _that_?"

"A good one," Cary retorted.

"Do I have to fight them?" Alice asked. "Or can I run away?"

"Of course you could run away. I'm just thinking, if you had to fight 'em, or escape from 'em for some reason – which one would be easier?"

The question caused no small amount of deliberation.

"I'd choose the duck-sized horses," Martin said eventually.

"Why?"

"They're small."

"Are they, though?" Alice said. "Ducks aren't exactly tiny – so one hundred duck-sized horses, while smaller than ponies, are still probably about ten pounds each. That's a lot to kick, or throw. Or battle. We're talking about _duck_ -sized horses, not ducklings."

Martin shook his head. "Even taking that into account, who would choose to fight a duck the size of a _horse_? The beak. The wingspan. The ability to attack and defend in the air, on land and in the water. If you don't have a weapon of some kind, how exactly do you defeat it?"

"Punch it?" Charles suggested.

"Have _you_ tried punching a horse? Wouldn't work. And wrestling it to the ground seems unlikely…" He trailed off. "Could you break its legs, maybe? Snap a wing?"

"The good thing about the horse-sized duck is that it's just one opponent," Joe said. "You can focus all your strength and energy on outsmarting it. Maybe it gets tired easily. It's hard to know."

Cary agreed. "Yeah, I'd definitely choose the big duck. I'd distract it with some bread, then as it gobbled it up, I'd jump on its back so I could fly it somewhere. It'd be like your own private plane."

"Cary, you're missing the point of your own question."

"Charles: shut up."

Almost without them noticing, the ground had begun to slope. Their path was leading them up a hill and it was getting harder and harder to pedal. _Beep-beep-beep-beep!_

"Hold on, what's it doing?" Martin asked.

"It's the map," Charles said. "We're close. Let's get off, we can walk from here."

They slipped off their bikes, grasping the handlebars. It was nice to stretch a bit after spending so long in the saddle. Slowly, they started trudging uphill, pushing their bikes through the grass; it crunched beneath their shoes, scratching at their jeans. Everything was bone-dry after the long summer.

"I never understood why people like the outdoors," Martin grumbled, panting slightly.

"Stop freaking out," Cary snapped.

"I'm _not_ freaking out – and I'd still choose the horses."

"I would take the duck," Rachel piped up from the back. "Ducks aren't really a feisty type of animal. If their nest is threatened, they'll bite, and they'll rush at small predators. But I doubt that even a thousand-pound duck would cause too much damage."

"So if I had a giant duck, you'd stick your finger in its mouth?" Alice asked.

"Sure. Duck bills are pretty flat, which means the force of their bite is spread over a large surface area. A horse-sized duck might be able to grab hold of you and drown you, if you're swimming, but the bite itself wouldn't cause much injury. For a duck to have any real power, it would need either a sharp bill, like an eagle, or… teeth, somehow. If all we're talking about is a giant duck, then – no problem." She blushed. "I, uh… did a project on ducks once."

"Well, good. As long as you're not a surprise duck enthusiast," Cary said. "Then we'd have to ditch you."

Charles scratched his nose. "Although the duck would still be able to fly, wouldn't it? It could pick you up and drop you – let you fall to your death."

"No… it couldn't," Joe realised. "We learned about this in physics. There's no way a horse-sized duck could get off the ground, because you _can't_ just scale up, see? If you go from a one-foot-tall duck to a ten-foot-tall duck, you need to have wings that are more than ten times larger. You need wings that are a _hundred_ times larger. That's the way the physics works. Mass is the problem."

Things weren't looking great for the horse-sized duck; or for their path up the hill, for that matter. The slope was getting steeper and steeper, making it unpleasantly difficult to push their bikes.

"This is too steep, man," Martin muttered. "Let's leave our bikes here."

"What – right here?" Joe asked.

"Yeah. Charles, how close are we?"

"Very. Maybe fifty yards."

"It'll be fine, then."

Gently, they set their bikes down in the grass. Charles grabbed the detector and the camera from his handlebars, handing the latter to Martin. Alice and Cary got a flashlight each. Their white beams were beginning to feel awfully meagre against the darkness and the strange animal noises that occasionally echoed across the hill. They walked with big, awkward strides, doing their best to step over the vegetation.

"We're getting pretty far from the road, guys," Alice murmured. A slight hint of nervousness. They _were_ very far from any landmarks, Joe noticed. _We've been travelling for almost an hour. How far from Lillian are we – ten miles, maybe?_

"Almost there," Charles said reassuringly.

_Beep-beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep-beep!_

"Back on topic," Cary began. "I rode a horse once."

"Did you," Martin said flatly.

"I learned that the most dangerous thing about a horse is its feet. Because they can kick on you, or step on you, and when that happens there's a good chance you'll end up in hospital—"

"But that's a horse-sized horse," Alice interrupted. "What about a duck-sized one?"

"It would be pretty harmless, wouldn't it? If you're only talking about one horse. Increase that to a hundred, though, and it changes the fight entirely." Cary squinted. "A hundred of them might be able do some damage. You could kick 'em, maybe, but it'd be easiest to try and run to safety. Climb a ladder. Problem solved."

Rachel didn't look convinced. "A horse-sized duck can't chase you into buildings, though. The tiny horses _can_. They could sneak in through doors, windows… even air vents."

"Still, I'd rather fight one enemy than a hundred," Cary replied. "I feel like my odds would be way better if one enormous duck was coming at me than a hundred duck-sized horses. I'd feel much more comfortable about defending myself. And I'd try and go for the neck. _Now_ does anyone think this question's stupid?"

 _Beep-beep-beep-beep!_ The detector chirped, either because it agreed with him or – finally – because they'd reached the top of the hill. The group stopped, catching their breath.

They scanned the landscape. The only real feature was an enormous electricity pylon, rising into the air before them. Its legs were made of criss-crossing steel girders, which spread into a 'T' shape about twenty metres up. ' _DANGER! HIGH VOLTAGE WIRE – KEEP OFF,'_ announced a board riveted to the metal. The air resonated with a low harmonic hum. Above, power cables arced through the night, until they met a second pylon atop a hill an eighth-mile distant.

"Is it the pylon?" Rachel asked, unsure of what to expect.

The screen of the detector fizzled, momentarily dissolving into static. "I don't think so," Charles replied.

They swept their torches over the hillside, illuminating patches of dirt and grass. Joe looked around. Nothing jumped out at him. _To be fair, though, it's basically impossible to see._

"Wait, what was that?" Alice said suddenly.

"I don't know."

"Give me the flashlight." She strode over to Charles and grabbed it off him, then shone it at a clump of weeds on the far side of the pylon. Suddenly, something flashed in the darkness – a silver glint, reflecting the torch beam.

"Over there!" Charles barked. "Martin, bring the camera."

"Already filming," he replied.

They jogged through the grass. The alien detector started blinking like a disco ball, blue bursts sparking on its surface. _Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep—_ there. An object, half-buried in the sand. They gathered round in an excited circle. It was grimy, dusty, dry leaves and sticks scattered nearby. It appeared to have fallen from a great height, the neighbouring ground dimpled like a crater.

Cary pointed his torch at it, knelt down. "Oh! That's different," he said. Because it wasn't a cube – instead, it was a silver cylinder, round except for a triangular flange on each side. On either end was a small black cap.

"What do you think it is?" Joe asked.

Martin shrugged. "Why does it look all burnt?"

Cary grabbed a stick and poked it a couple of times. _Clink!_ He reached out to pull the cylinder from the dirt.

"Hey, be careful," Charles said. "Careful!"

Cary turned to Martin and rolled his eyes at the camera lens. Then, he seized the object with both hands. Dust fell from its surface.

"Could be… part of a satellite?" Rachel suggested.

"It's definitely part of _something_ ," Cary said. "And I bet it's the last part we need."

"Why?" Alice asked.

"It's always three pieces, isn't it? In books or movies, whenever the hero goes on a quest they have to find three pieces of a magical artefact. It's the rule of threes."

"I _don't_ think that applies," Alice said. "Unless you're actually suggesting this is a quest. And that we're heroes."

"Sounds good to me," Joe murmured.

With mock triumph, as if he'd discovered long-lost treasure, Cary took the cylinder and the detector and slowly brought the two—

—pieces—

—together.

_Clink!_

They touched. Nothing happened.

"You were saying?" Alice retorted.

 _Clink! Clink clink clink!_ He banged them against each other a couple of times. Still nothing.

"Let me try," Charles said. He lifted the cylinder, turning it over in his hands. "It's dusty. Pretty light. Hollow, probably." Charles rapped his knuckles on its surface; shook it, held it up to his ear.

"Piece of crap," Cary muttered darkly.

"Hey!" Joe said. "It's not a… national treasure, but it could be used for something. We have to figure out how to make it work. That's it."

Charles sighed. "Or, maybe the map led to squat. Maybe this has been a wild duck chase all along."

"Goose chase," Rachel murmured.

"Maybe the first two pieces were just luck; maybe this was _never_ gonna work out. The piece looks broken. If we can't do anything with it, this whole thing's been for nothing!"

"But that's… okay, isn't it?" Alice said softly. "This didn't have to _be_ for anything. We had a hunch, maybe it was wrong. We still… had fun, didn't we?"

"Fun?" Charles shook his head. "Alice, I thought this would actually _mean_ something. I wanted to do something GOOD. And for once we were actually getting somewhere with this entire stupid _alien_ business—"

Rachel blinked.

"Yeah," Martin said. "Look, guys. I can't keep sneaking around behind my parents' back for 'fun', no matter how shitty they are sometimes."

Cary kicked the sand. "Exactly. Charles, I got _beaten up_ for those cubes. And for your stupid movie."

"Hey! My movie's not— forget about it. Just turn off the camera."

Alice stared at him. "So all you care about is getting this on video?"

"Guys! Guys!" Joe interrupted. "Calm down. I know we're frustrated, but there's still a chance we can get this to work—"

Suddenly, something sparkled in his peripheral vision. They whirled around.

"Oh, _shit_ ," Cary whispered.

There were flashlights on the hill. Five, six of them. Standing on a distant ridge, silhouetted against the sky.

"Get the hell down!" Charles hissed.

As one, they dived onto the ground. Luckily the grass provided a decent amount of cover, shielding them from view. Quietly, Joe wriggled sideways to get a better look. _Can't tell how many people there are._ But there were five flashlights, bobbing up and down, plus two bright headlights coming from a vehicle. One beam swept over their hiding spot, blinding him momentarily.

"That's strong," Martin whispered. "D'you think they can see us?"

"Nah. Not from that distance."

A couple of the flashlights walked along the ridge, turning back and forth. Snatches of sound drifted down the hill towards them, carried by the wind. _"—I'm picking up some spikes in the readings—"_

The lights seemed to be getting closer. Joe ducked down, pressing into the grass. Something glowed behind him.

"Turn your flashlight off, dummy!" Charles said.

"Sorry," Cary whispered.

Distantly, he noticed that the detector had stopped beeping; _thank god for small victories._ He focused on his breathing, listening to the air and the insects.

"That's a military patrol," Rachel said quietly.

"How do you know?" Alice asked.

"The sound of the engine. It's an army truck."

"…She's good," Cary muttered. "Do you think they'll find us?"

"Not sure," Rachel said after a second. "I don't think they're soldiers, because they're not moving in formation. If you want to we could probably move."

"I do want to," Charles replied. "How?"

"If we stay low and keep quiet, they shouldn't notice us. We'll be following the wind – it'll carry the sound away."

"Alright. Then let's go."

Stealthily, the group got to their knees. Joe was closest to the bikes and so led the way, snaking through the undergrowth. No matter how slowly he crawled, the dry grass made a shockingly-loud crackle, and he hoped Rachel's theory was correct. _Otherwise we're gonna be in a whole lot of trouble._

"Why would the air force be out this far?" Alice wondered.

"Who cares," Charles said, still disappointed. "The night's blown."

"Charles, come on. It is _not_ blown."

Joe hoped that someone had actually picked up the cylinder. Even if it wasn't immediately useful, it'd still be good to keep. Furtively, he crept down the hillside, making his way to the spot they'd stashed their bikes.

* * *

The ride back was drenched in awkward silence. The trip out had been full of eagerness, adrenaline, everyone anticipating whatever they'd find – and now that they'd found it, the wind had been knocked out of them. The road ahead was long and winding, and briefly they steered onto the verge to let a solitary car pass by. Joe wondered what the driver thought of six kids riding through the night.

"I was thinking," Alice began, "about duck-sized horses."

"Oh no," Martin replied.

"Although they're probably fast, and capable of fighting in a herd… horses are edgy. They're easily spooked. If you move towards one quickly or unexpectedly, they run away, right? And if they're scaled down to duck size, their biggest weapons – kicking or biting – aren't lethal. It wouldn't even cause a bruise. Maybe the horses would be harder to track down, and could run away more easily, but it's _also_ easier to trap them and kill them."

"Yeah," Cary agreed. "Give me some work boots and a baseball bat and it'd be over pretty quick. Or even better, a chainsaw."

Joe winced. "Great image." The reflectors on Alice's pedals sparkled ahead of him. And then—

 _Bzzrrkk!_ Something in her backpack exploded with light – bright, blue, shining through the fabric. It buzzed harshly. She skidded onto the side of the road, kicking up gravel, then whipped off her backpack and threw it into a bush.

The bag lay there, dark and dormant.

"What the _hell_ was that?" she swore, more out of shock than anything else.

"Perhaps it wasn't so broken after all," Rachel said.

They got off their bikes, moving away from the road. The surrounding area was a little denser than earlier – reeds, bushes, a couple of green ferns. _Maybe there's a river nearby_ , Joe thought. A bright yellow sign announced ' _NARROW BRIDGE AHEAD_ '.

"It touched me," Alice said. "It moved. I felt it."

"Are you – are you serious?" Charles asked.

"It _moved._ "

"…Huh." He seemed puzzled. "Cary, go check."

"Why me?"

"Just do it."

Cary sighed, then marched over to the abandoned backpack. "Careful," Joe murmured. He knelt down and reached for the zip; yanked it open and peered inside.

 _Brzrrk!_ "Aaah!" He leapt to his feet, scrambling backwards.

"What?" Martin asked. "Did it poke you too?"

Cary didn't reply. He stared uneasily at the bag.

"Dude, say something. What did you see?"

"Why don't you go and look," he retorted.

Martin shrugged. "Okay." He handed the video camera to Charles, then sat and began digging through the backpack. Surprisingly, nothing immediately jumped out to grab his fingers. "Wow, how much stuff did you pack?"

"I thought we should come prepared," Alice replied.

Eventually, hiding under a pencil case full of batteries, he found the silver cylinder. It was still half-covered in sand and he stood up, turning it over. "Seems pretty broken to me."

"It made a noise," Joe said. "And a light."

Martin peered at it, held it up to the sky. "Hey," he said, as if scolding a disobedient pet. "Hey, do something,"

"I _don't_ think that's gonna work," Cary said.

"Wake up. Hey, wake up. Beep."

 _Beep!_ The cylinder flashed, and Martin nearly jumped out of his skin. "It moved! It – it vibrated!"

"Do that again, do that again!" Charles hissed.

"Do what?"

"What you just did!"

Martin looked he very much _didn't_ want to, but – "Beep."

 _Beep!_ It flashed. Shivered.

Charles dashed to his bicycle. He grabbed the radar detector, then ran back to Martin. "Give it, give it here." He took the cylinder, then placed both devices on the ground. If you were paying attention, there was a slight bowl-shape on the lower surface of the detector; one that the cylinder might slot into if you twisted it just right. Charles did so, and there was a satisfying _click_! He leaned in close and hummed: "Beep."

Indigo light shimmered on the silver. _Beep._

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._ As it had previously, the detector started making noise: a regular computerised tone. This time, though, the tone was ascending on its own – even though it wasn't moving.

"Whoa," Cary breathed.

Joe smiled. "Told you."

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Why is it rising like that?" Rachel asked.

"Dunno," Charles said. "Cause it – hey, does that sound like a bomb to anyone else?"

"A bomb?"

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Yeah, like a bomb countdown."

"It can't be a bomb," Alice said. "That'd be… weird."

"Would it?"

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

"It _does_ kinda sound like it," Cary said.

"Is it a bomb?" Martin asked.

"Dunno." Charles shrugged, a little nervously.

_Beep. Beep. Beep! Beep!_

"I feel like we're going round in circles." Joe murmured.

"How about we step back. Just in case," Alice said.

"Yeah. Yeah."

_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!_

Cautiously, they moved away. Several seconds later Charles broke into a run. "Oh god, no no no no no—" _Beep! Beep! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ The sound grew, suddenly deafening and they themselves to the ground, covering their ears. Joe winced. _I hope it's safe._ Then—

_Bodies. Running. So many people, running from the fire. Yet they couldn't escape, couldn't run, and in a single awful second they were torn apart like old newspaper as more violet streaks screamed through the streets, fire spreading from their wings—_

Silence.

Slowly, Joe looked up. He squinted at the distant machine. Crickets chirped. _Crap._

"Guys… I think it might have defused," Cary said.

" _Or_ it wasn't a bomb in the first place," Alice suggested.

"Maybe. Hold on, hold on, I've got an idea." He rummaged around in the dirt. Soon, Cary found what he was looking for and chucked it at the machine.

 _Clink!_ A pebble bounced off its shell.

"Cary!" Charles hissed.

"What?"

"Okay, it didn't do anything – just don't do it again."

_…Clink!_

"Are you _insane_ , Cary?"

"Charles, I'm pretty sure it's not gonna blow up."

"But what if it _does_?!"

One by one they got to their feet, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. After waiting for another car to whoosh past, they formed a circle around the detector. Cary seized it, smacked it against the ground a couple of times; Charles grimaced but there were no sudden explosions.

"Let me try something," he murmured. Carefully, he placed his palm on the rectangle's silver face.

 _Bloop!_ It glowed. Sprang to life. On the screen was a representation of the landscape – three dimensional, formed from an array of blue dots – with hills, forests, roads… the river cut through the centre as a splash of blue watercolour. Their current position was indicated by a circle in the bottom left corner, with another circle flashing at the top right. A shimmering line connected them, urging them onwards.

 _Now THAT'S a map_ , Joe thought.

"We should follow it," Martin said. It wasn't even a question.

* * *

Their newest destination was a long way out of town. Joe wondered if it was past midnight yet; it had to be getting close. _If three pieces didn't finish the machine, hopefully the fourth will. I don't know if we can keep going much longer._

The highway continued, same as always, the double-yellow line in the centre mimicking their mysterious map. Five minutes later, Charles steered them onto another track – this one appeared to be the entrance to a farm, the gate left open but guarded by a sign:

**' _NO TRESPASSING_**

**_Violators will be shot_ **

**_Survivors will be shot again'_ **

They kept riding. "Didn't you see the 'no trespassing' sign?" Rachel asked.

Cary grinned. "Nope."

* * *

The track – and the map – led to an old barn. It squatted in a field, bordered by ancient trees, walls and roof made from chipped, stained wood. Damaged farm equipment was piled against one side and the roof sagged; probably leaked when it rained. An electric lantern hung above the door. It beckoned them towards it.

They crept through the grass, torches held low.

"This is where the map says to go," Charles whispered.

The frogs croaked. There had to be hundreds of them, hidden amongst the bushes. Prickles and seeds scratched against Joe's jacket and he stopped for a second to brush them off.

"Stop stepping on leaves," Alice hissed.

"There's leaves everywhere!"

"Shh!"

Abruptly, a second building appeared through the trees. It was a house of some kind – no, a shed. Long, low, painted white. A station wagon and pickup truck were parked inside and attached to it was a workshop, door closed. A light shone from inside.

They all froze, watching. Waiting. No signs of movement.

"What was that!?" Rachel whispered.

"What?"

"…Nothing."

They continued on. Charles led them in a wide arc to avoid the shed, taking cover behind a line of oak trees. Their branches were heavy with shadowed leaves, intertwined and tangled with the grass. Suddenly, the branches were something else. Joe blinked. He looked up. They weren't branches, but… tentacles. _Writhing. Searching. They wrapped around him, rough and wet like snakes, his friends too, dragging him up and up into the sky towards a black, aching mass—_

No! They were only branches. _Stop it! Stop. Get out of my head._ Nevertheless, there was a newfound weight in his stomach; a weight that seemed to say 'Stay away. Stay away, and _don't come back_.'

_It isn't real. It isn't real._

"Aaaah!" Cary yelled.

"What? What is it?"

"Shit!" he swore. "Shit crap balls!"

Alice rushed over to him. "What's wrong?"

"Stupid – spider!" He flailed his arms wildly, spitting and coughing. "Stupid spider landed right on my stupid face! Eugh!"

"Ha," Martin grunted.

Joe took another drink of water as Cary dealt with his new hairy friend. His chest felt… strange. As if he was a – a magnet, and the barn was a magnet, both with similar poles so that the closer he got, the stronger it wanted to push him away.

 _Huh._ As soon as it arrived, the feeling was gone.

"Hate spiders," Cary grumbled.

The group peered through the trees at the shed and the barn. About twenty yards of open ground lay between them and their goal, in full view of whoever might walk by. _Realistically, though, how many farmers are gonna be outside this late at night?_

"Okay: go!" Charles led the way through the field, dashing to the wide barn doors. They swung open easily on well-oiled hinges, unlocked. He ushered them inside.

It was dark. Rapidly, they swept their flashlights over the interior, scanning the room with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. At first glance, it appeared to be pretty standard – stacked bales of hay, a rusting tractor, a ladder that led to an attic above. On the left was a small workbench, tools and spare parts hanging from nails in the wood. The air was heavy, smelling of cow manure and sawdust.

The others walked forwards, searching for anything out of place. The vision hit him like a freight train. _His mother. She was telling him to stop. To stay away. The fire, the lights, the black mass, it was all part of the same thing – all thanks to_ them _. She ran towards him, but he could only watch as the silver shone, as the sky cracked and bore its flaming fruit, and she reached out a hand to stop them before it was too late—_

"Listen," Martin began, peering under a crate. "I've solved the duck vs. horse problem."

"Have you," Cary said.

"Yes. It's biology. Firstly, a horse-sized duck would probably collapse in on itself. Its lungs wouldn't be able to support the extra weight. There's _also_ the problem of the hollow bones that birds have – the bones would get weaker as they grew longer and would break, killing it."

"So the horses win," Alice said.

"No. Wait. The duck-sized horses would also _freeze_ to death 'cause of their size. Tiny horses would have a ton of trouble staying warm; their bodies aren't adapted to have their weight close to the surface, so they wouldn't conserve heat nearly as well as other small animals. Their metabolism can't cope. After a short time, they'd die."

Charles moaned, in what sounded like physical pain. "So your conclusion is that this ENTIRE DISCUSSION HAS BEEN POINTLESS because both animals would die instantaneously."

"Not pointless," Martin replied, "because the death of the duck-sized horses would take longer, giving them the potential to do some damage. Fight the giant duck, is what I'm saying, as long as you make sure it doesn't fall on you. I _knew_ Dr. Woodward's class would come in handy someday—"

"I found it," Rachel said.

"Huh?"

"I found the piece." She stepped out from behind the tractor; in her hands was a segmented white cube.

"Oh, cool!" Charles said. "Back to normal."

Then the cube leapt out of her grasp, whizzing up towards the roof.

"Whoa, woah!"

"Get down!"

Joe ducked, shielding his head. The cube bounced off the wood, then skidded off the ground, so fast it was merely a blur. _Whoof!_ A cloud of hay exploded into the air.

"Oh, geez!"

It was too fast to follow. Cary scurried backwards, taking cover behind a crate and Martin joined him a second later. _Bang!_ The cube ricocheted and slammed into a light. Wiring snapped, briefly showering them with sparks. Something cracked.

"Charles, watch out!"

"Aaah! Aah!"

Charles crawled away as fast as he could. The cube _thwacked_ off the ground between his legs, back up to the ceiling. The workbench shivered. Another bale was pulverised into a puffs of hay. Above them chains rattled, whipped sideways, a hint of white screaming through the air.

"What's going on?"

"Where is it!?"

One of the torches lay discarded on the ground. The cube streaked by it, then immediately back the other way, suddenly changing direction so that it was arrowing straight towards Charles—or not. Before he could dodge or scream of react the cube _slammed_ into the silver detector, so fast it should've burrowed right through, but instead of doing that it simply seemed to disappear. The silver wobbled. Charles twitched and threw it across the room.

Then, of course, it began to transform. First, three legs, coils extending into a tripod. Then a control panel, with featureless buttons and empty chrome screen. Then, something new – a foot-wide satellite dish, mounted on an arm, spinning into position. A single antenna speared from its centre, a metre long, thin and sharp. Torchlight glinted from its tip.

The detector – or whatever it was – stood silently in the barn, looking perfectly ready to contact the stars. The faintest halo of blue light seemed to surround its silver surface, extending it beyond solid material.

"The documents we stole from the base," Martin began. "Did they… say anything about this?"

"No," Charles replied. "They didn't."

_Beep… beep… beep…_

"It's like an echo," Rachel murmured. "An echo of… time."

Instantly, they understood what she meant. The sound was strange, as if – as if it wasn't really there. A memory.

Warily, Charles walked towards the device. Paused. Then, with one hand, he reached out and touched the control panel.

_Bloop!_

The screen flickered to life. On it, there lay two startlingly-readable words.

 **'THEY'RE HERE'** , it said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down! Slowly but surely, I'm working out what's actually gonna happen in this story. (Hint: a lot. My planning document is a nightmare.)
> 
> Some acknowledgements:
> 
> -Several elements of this chapter were blatantly taken from Persona 4, because it's very good. See also: Freaks and Geeks.  
> -The whole signal idea is from the movie Earth to Echo, which is a pretty serviceable Super-8-esque story.  
> -Thanks to various internet sites for extensive discussions of horses and ducks.


	29. About to Explode

* * *

" _Being soaked alone is cold. Being soaked with your best friend is an adventure."_

**– Emily Wing Smith**

* * *

_You're standing on a hillside, alone. It's dark. You glance upward. For a few moments all you can see is a murky, swirling blackness; then patterns and colours begin to emerge, like a rainbow sheen of oil on water. The black clouds become translucent, the stars grow visible through swirling haze, and then…_

_God._

_God, you can see it._

_The comet, roaring silently through the endless void, streaking toward Earth – and it's alive, this thing that's coming is ALIVE, tendrils that must be hundreds, thousands of miles long streaming before it, reaching out to grasp and strangle and devour whole worlds, and it is coming here, it is coming to Earth, and as fire strikes the burning sky its great, lidless, red-rimmed eye rolls over in a vast lake of vitreous fluid and_

_looks_

_at_

_you_

"Joe!"

Or maybe it wasn't an eye. Maybe it was a volleyball, about to hit him in the face.

_WHACK!_

"Ow!" Joe staggered back as the ball ricocheted squarely from his skull. _Whoops._ He winced, rubbing his stinging forehead as it bounced away along the floor of the gymnasium.

"What the hell was that?" Cary asked.

"I don't know." He shrugged, forcing a smile. "Daydreaming?"

"Daydreaming?! You were looking right at it!"

"I… sorry."

Cary sighed disappointedly and ran off to retrieve the volleyball. Joe felt his cheeks go red as he realised that, yep, the whole class was looking at him. _Hey, it's not MY fault I have crazy alien hallucinations. I think they're getting worse. Are they?_

 _Yep, I think they're getting worse. Great._ This week they were playing volleyball in P.E., and four tall nets had been strung up across the gymnasium. Eight teams of six students thumped balls at each other from opposite sides of the court, with varying levels of success; it was hard to get the hang of. Their gym teacher stalked the perimeter with watchful eyes, sharp blasts of his whistle echoing from the roof. Shoes squeaked on the polished wood floor. Joe had the usual group on his team, plus Cameron Loveland, a tall, good-looking redhead he'd known since elementary school – and height was a decent advantage in volleyball, so having Cameron play for them had produced more than a few free points.

Cary skipped forwards and chucked the ball at the far end. (Since they'd lost that particular rally it, was the other team's turn to serve). One of the other boys grabbed it and, nervously, stepped up to the line.

"You guys ready?" he called out.

"Yeah, yeah. Hurry up!"

He threw the ball up, ready to punch it over the net but – _thwack!_ – didn't quite hit it dead-on and it sailed awkwardly into a neighbouring court.

His teammates groaned. " _Henryyyy_ , what was that?"

"It's difficult, alright? You totally did the same thing last time!"

Before they could retrieve the ball, the whistle blew once more. "Okay, everyone! Time to rotate!" their teacher announced. "Move one spot clockwise so you're playing a different crew!"

With a disorganised shuffle, each team made their way onto the adjacent court. Joe, Charles and Preston took up positions at the back while Cary, Martin and Cameron waited near the net. The air was getting uncomfortably warm and Charles was already sweating profusely in his gym uniform; and he shook his head, wiping moisture from his brow. "Okay. What's our strategy?"

"Keep the ball off the ground?" Joe suggested.

" _And_ hit it over the net," Martin added.

"Very funny." Charles rolled his eyes. "What else? Remember that 'setting' and 'spiking' stuff we learned last week?"

"When we can't even pass straight half the time, an actual strategy's probably ambitious," Preston replied.

Cameron jogged over to them, arms folded. "How 'bout this?" he said. "You guys at the back receive their serve – try and dig it towards us. Then Martin or Cary can push the ball up high and I'll jump and pound it at their side. Sound good?"

"Sounds… yeah," Charles replied. "At least _someone_ here knows what they're talking about."

Joe stood in the back right corner, smiling faintly. It was impossible for Charles _not_ to take things seriously, no matter what they were doing. Cameron bounced up and down a couple times, stretching his shoulders, while the opposing team filed into position at the far end. Cary was at the front of court and knelt down for a moment to retie his shoelaces.

When he looked up, he twitched. _Uh-oh._

Todd grinned, cracking his knuckles, having miraculously appeared on the opposite side of the net. Cary gave him a stealthy middle finger (hiding the gesture from their gym teacher). He'd rotated through a range of nicknames for his new enemy, mostly M-rated, before settling on 'King Jerkoff' because it was the most fun to say. _How much friggin' grease do you put in your hair, dipshit? Hey, I bet it'd burn pretty well._

Joe narrowed his eyes as he noticed the confrontation. Though he appreciated the support, dealing with Todd was bad enough _without_ all his friends getting involved too. _It's a stupid waste of energy, is what it is. I could be thinking about a million more important things instead of whether someone's gonna punch me today._ _Although he hasn't actually punched me yet, so… maybe he's finally getting over it?_

"You guys ready?" the opposing captain called out.

"Yeah, bring it!" Charles said confidently.

"Okay…" The boy polished the ball on his t-shirt, then tossed it up and punched it over the net. It spun in a blur of red and white – aiming right towards Preston in the back left corner. This was bad. His eyes widened. _Don't pa_ _nic. Do_ _n't pa_ _nic._ He sidestepped, sticking his hands out in front to intercept—

 _Thwack!_ The ball bounced from his forearms high and to the right, over Charles, over Joe, in a perfect arc towards the side of the gymnasium.

"Whoops," Preston muttered.

"Whad'ya do that for?" Cary asked.

"It was supposed to go the other way!"

Joe ran after the ball as it flew, gazing upwards while trying not to collide with any obstacles. _Should be able to get there before it lands—_ he skidded to a stop, held out his arms and somehow the volleyball bounced off at _just_ the right angle to soar over his head and back towards their court.

"Woooh! Good save Joe!" Charles met the pass and pushed it high with both hands, sending it back over the net.

Joe couldn't help but feel mildly impressed with himself. _Coolest thing I've done all week._ The ball was moving slow, though and the other team shifted calmly to intercept. One of the kids in the back line handled it easily, passing towards the front; Todd took the next shot and set it up for his teammate, flinging the volleyball up and left. The boy sprang into the air, arm swept back ready to – _bam!_ – spike it down onto Joe's side of the court.

Martin was there and jumped up, hands raised desperately, blocking the path to their side. Against all odds the volleyball smacked into his flailing limbs, instantly rebounding at the other team. Todd spun on the spot, stretching to reach – but the angle was too sharp, too fast and the ball tumbled limply into the net, hitting the floor with a dull _thud_.

"One point to us, I guess!" Cameron said. He gave Martin a thumbs up. Martin looked surprised. Cary looked ecstatic.

"You lanky idiot," Cary giggled. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm not lanky."

"You are. And you're lucky. Why are you so lucky all the time?"

"Hey, remember that time a tank shot me and broke my leg, while the rest of you miraculously escaped? I deserve luck."

Since they'd won the point it was time to rotate positions, and they all moved one spot clockwise. With an irritated glare, Todd trudged over and booted the ball at them. Joe realised that meant it was his turn to serve and swallowed. _Okay, let's make it two good shots in a row._ He stuck his foot out to intercept the ball, picked it up with sweaty fingers. Spun it round a few times.

With a quick breath, he tossed the ball up, then punted it underarm over the net. _Go in go in go in go in— phew._ It cleared the tape by a couple of feet, barrelling down the centre of the court. The other team braced to receive. _Thwack!_ The serve came back in a high arc, flying straight and true.

"Mine!" Charles shouted. He sidestepped, attempting to pass it to the attackers up front, but the ball went too far sideways and Preston had to chase it down, scarcely got there with enough time to push it feebly at the other end. Luckily, the other team whiffed their attack too, fist brushing ball and not doing much except making it float up high.

It gave them another chance. "Got it," Charles said determinedly. This time it went better and he sent the ball straight to Cary, standing by the net. Cary shuffled back, popped the ball up lightly with both hands; Cameron was ready, waiting and leapt into the air with athletic precision, timed so that he could smack the volleyball down hard at the other team's court. _Bam!_

It wasn't actually supposed to hit anyone until Todd got in the way. Instead of the poor, innocent gym floor, the ball glanced off Todd's shoulder with a painful _thud!_ and spun away fast, sound echoing from the rafters. The teenager recoiled, more out of shock than anything else. His eyes flashed.

Cameron raised a hand in apology. "Sorry."

Cary whooped, having too much fun. " _Awesome_ dude!"

"We still get the point, right?" Martin asked.

"Of course we get the point," Preston said. "Doesn't matter, no one's keeping score anyway."

For a moment, Todd looked like he was going to say something – then thought better of it. He stalked back to his teammates while another boy ran to retrieve the volleyball.

"Is he okay?" Cameron asked, frowning.

"Oh, yeah. Don't worry about him," Cary replied. "He's just sick."

"With what?"

"Dickhead disease."

Joe snorted, trying not to laugh. _Get well soon._ Sometimes, Cary knew exactly what to say. But, despite the joke, he couldn't help thinking that something was about to—

* * *

Trapping fifty post-gym boys in an enclosed space was never a pleasant experience, but everyone had to get dressed somewhere. The changerooms were packed, the air reeking of stale sweat and extra-strength deodorant, and once that smell settled into the damp green tiles and lockers it never seemed to leave.

Joe put his bag on the closest bench and unfolded his crumpled shirt. Around him, the other boys did the same, chatting loudly, cracking jokes. Cary was already nearly done, searching for his socks. Martin had a quick sniff of his shirt and winced.

"Cary, can I borrow your deodorant?"

"Sure, Smelltin."

Through a combination of sheer luck and willpower, they'd actually beaten the other team at volleyball. Todd, predictably, had looked pretty annoyed. The others hadn't seemed to mind. _It's like he's actively searching for reasons to be angry at me… so don't give him any._ Joe slipped out of his gym shorts and stuffed them in his backpack, then grabbed his jeans, wriggling into them. _I don't think anyone's actually_ hated _me before, apart from Charles for that one week in grade three. I mean, I try and be nice! Usually it works! I guess the problems start when someone hates you for entirely stupid reasons._

BAM!

_Exactly._

As if illustrating his point, a fist slammed into the locker next to his head. Joe didn't have to turn around to know who it was – but he did turn, trying to stand his ground, hiding his racing heartbeat with a calm, even stare. "What was that for?"

"I've been thinking…" Todd began.

 _Well, that's a surprise_. Todd leaned against the locker, casually, cracking his knuckles like a gorilla. Too close for comfort. A couple of his cronies stood behind him, hands in pockets, perhaps a little uncertain. They almost looked like they belonged on the album cover of a disco band, but Joe decided that image wasn't exactly conducive to his current situation.

Martin and Cary stood behind him, watching apprehensively.

"I've been thinking, what's the deal?" Todd continued. "What's the deal with you and Alice? I saw you walking home with her yesterday."

"…And?"

"And why? Why would she pick you over me?"

 _Because you're the kind of person who does_ this _,_ Joe whispered in his head. _Because you think the entire world exists to do what you want it to, and you can't handle it when it doesn't. You're so used to winning you can't handle losing so you end up picking stupid fights in locker rooms to make yourself happy._ That's _why._

If only he'd said it out loud. Todd's gaze flicked sideways, glancing over Joe's shoulder. "What are YOU looking at?" he growled.

"Nothing," Cary said quietly.

The eyes flicked back to Joe. "You're a loser."

"What?"

"You're a friggin' loser. You and your loser friends, and your loser life, and your loser family. You're a stupid little nerd who can't even throw straight."

"Hey, that's not—"

"The only reason Alice liked you in the first place is because she felt sorry for you," Todd said venomously. "Did you know that? That's what she said last year. 'That poor kid, his mom died, I feel so bad for him.' It's the only reason Alice ever _talked_ to you. Otherwise you'd be _nothing_."

Joe's breath caught in his throat. "Why would you say that?"

"Cause it's true."

"Alice felt sorry for me because she's _nice_. Because she's a nice _person_."

"Well, great, and you're still just the quiet kid whose mom got crushed by a steel beam. That's what you are. To _every friggin' person in this school_ , that's all you'll ever be."

Silence. The other kids were watching, now, room balanced on a knife-edge. Joe felt their stares pricking at his skin. _Is that what I am to you guys?… Sure, six months ago. But that's only a part of me, and a part which shouldn't matter anymore._

"That's not true," he said aloud.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. It isn't. And if this is what being a loser is like, then I – I don't care," Joe said firmly. "'Cause I'm happy with my 'loser' friends, and you obviously aren't."

"You don't know anything about me," Todd hissed back. "My dad _owns_ that steel mill. He _owns_ Lillian. Your dad only walks around and—"

"My dad makes Lillian a better _place_!"

"Sure, if that's what you mean by killing stray dogs in your spare time."

"What? The police don't—" Joe swallowed. _Of course you'd make something up._ "Hey, if I'm such a crappy choice, then how come Alice doesn't like you anymore? What the hell does that make YOU?" It came out louder than he'd intended. His voice cracked.

Behind him, Cary laid a hand on his shoulder. "Joe, don't—"

"Stay out of this!" Todd's eyes flashed.

Cary stepped back, suddenly afraid. Joe looked at him, then Todd and suddenly put two and two together. The bruises, the black eye, the way they were acting round each other…

"You shouldn't hurt my friends," Joe said.

"Or what?" Todd replied mockingly.

"Or – or I'll hurt you back." It sounded stupid. Small.

"Oh, come on. As if you'd ever have a chance. You can't even make up a good threat – but everyone heard you, so what are you gonna do?"

They had heard. Shocked, frozen, none willing to interrupt. Despite himself, Joe felt anger flowing sharp in his veins, frustration threatening to build to boiling point. _Don't hurt my friends._

"Do you know what Alice thinks you are?" he asked.

"What? Of course I do—"

"She thinks that you're a dumb jock. She thinks that you're annoying, and stuck-up, and you're being a real jerk."

Todd snorted. "She does _not_. How would you know?"

"Well, I'm the one who gets to talk to her now, so yes, I _do_ know. She thinks that you used to be kinda nice, but now you've turned into a complete bully. She actually regrets being friends with you in the first place 'cause you don't know how to deal with your problems."

Todd clenched his jaw, but something in his eyes… there was pain there. _He still looks up to her_ , Joe realised. _He still thinks she's the world._

"Alice found people who actually appreciated her, and that's why she ditched you. That's it. Let it GO."

"Shut up, Joe," Todd hissed.

"No!" he said grimly. "I know you're desperate, or lonely or whatever, but _you're_ being the loser here. And I bet every single person would agree with me, 'cause Alice definitely does."

Last straw. Inside Todd, something broke. He let out a half-bark, half-cry, a dying dog and all of sudden was in Joe's face faster than a freight train. Hands grabbed his shoulders and _slammed_ him against the locker, pushing him into the metal. For a second, Joe was too stunned to react – though when he did he couldn't do much since Todd was a hell of a lot stronger. The hands seized him, threw him into the locker again, and he tried to twist away and stop with his legs but his bare feet slipped uselessly on the damp green floor. Something sharp dug into his back and _hurt_ , bad.

The rest of the boys seemed divided over what was happening – some at the back shouting "Fight! Fight! Fight!" half-heartedly while others at the front rushed forward to try and break it up.

"What do we do?" Martin asked. "What do we do?"

"Get a teacher!" Cary hissed.

"What?"

"Get a teacher _right now_! Run, you idiot!"

Martin ran, arms flailing as he skidded round the corner. Cary swallowed. _How the heck do I help?_ The problem was that no one wanted to get too close and he didn't fancy his chances solo, not after last time.

Joe grunted. Todd slipped on a bag and they both tumbled to the floor, knocking the bench on the way down. Joe rolled in the wrong direction so that Todd was pinning his chest. His head smacked on the tiles. "Aah!" Todd was a huge weight on his ribs, squeezing his lungs, short of breath – he remembered a ghost story Charles had told him about some kid who'd accidentally broken another kid's nose, so that a shard of bone had pierced their brain and killed them. For a brief moment it seemed like a good idea.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

"Todd, get off him!"

Joe managed to knee him in the gut and scrambled away on hands and knees, climbing to his feet. His head ached. Before he could do anything else Todd yelled and cannoned into him, both boys stumbling awkwardly across the room in a tangled mess of limbs. _BANG!_ Into another locker. _This is wrong_ , was all Joe could think. _I don't want to do this. This shouldn't be happening._ His elbow thumped against Todd's ribs and he was rewarded with a burst of gratification. _He deserves it. He deserves it for being such a dick—_ Todd had him in a hold though, once more pressing the fight out of him, ignoring Cary and the other two boys who were trying to pull him away. _Crack!_ Another elbow.

"Hey!" The teacher's voice, sharp and loud. "Hey! What the HECK is happening here? You two, break it up _right_ now before I have to—"

* * *

Joe picked at the scab on his knee, exploring the bloody crust with his thumbnail. _I know I shouldn't. I know it'll make it worse. But for some reason it's just so satisfying—_

"Stop it." Alice slapped his hand away.

He grinned guiltily. "Yeah, I know."

"Then why would you?"

"…Dunno."

She rolled her eyes. They were sitting on the steps in front of Joe's house, afternoon sunlight dancing on the grass. The official reason for her visit was 'let's do our biology homework together,' though Joe would be surprised if that actually happened. It didn't really matter either way; the house would be empty until his dad came home from work.

"What I really wanna know is where you got that black eye," Alice continued.

"What black eye?"

"The one you're obviously trying to hide under your hand. Joe, look at me."

He looked at her. Sun glinted from the charm on her wrist. Her blue eyes quickly scanned his face, filled with concern, carrying with them an electric _zap_ – a connection, just as potent as on that first crazy night when she'd pulled up by Charles' house in a borrowed car. _It's still crazy._

"Where'd you get it?" she asked.

"Well, it's… sort of embarrassing, but a volleyball hit me in the face." _Surprisingly, true._

Alice didn't look convinced. "Really."

"Really. I swear."

"Fine. But unless volleyball turned into a contact sport while I wasn't paying attention, the other half of you got in a fight with someone."

"…Ehhh…"

"Woah, what's _that_ supposed to mean."

 _Um – 'yes', but I don't really want to tell you about it?_ He shrugged noncommittally, and Alice gave him a piercing sort of look.

"Joe, I'm not stupid. I know you got in a fight with Todd."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Oh." He smiled weakly.

"Fights are like, peoples' second-favourite rumour behind who's dating who – everyone in English was gossiping about it barely an hour afterwards. I guess you're one of those cool 'bad boy' kids now." She made air quotes around the statement, but the sarcasm was clear in her voice. "Why?"

"I didn't exactly _mean_ to," Joe replied, a little defensively. "Todd was being annoying and it kinda just… happened."

"I don't care. It doesn't matter who started it. There must've been another option."

"There wasn't really a chance – I mean, it's the first fight I've ever been in. The first real one." He shook his head. "I didn't want to be there."

"Yes, but it still _happened_ ," Alice said. "Next time, even if you have to run away, just do it. First of all, this doesn't solve anything. Second of all, I don't want you getting hurt – because let's face it, you'll probably lose nine times out of ten. And third, this makes things… awkward. For you. For me. Even for Todd."

 _Hey, I'd be fine if it was merely 'awkward'. SOME PEOPLE, though, want to watch the world burn._ "Were the girls being weird to you about it?"

"Weird? You could say that." Alice sighed, kicking the step. "'Mean' is more like it."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't be. You still got the crappier end of the stick. Tell you what – I'll go talk to Todd sometime, then maybe I can fix this stupid mess. It's dragged on long enough anyway."

Joe bit his lip. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"No," she replied, "but it could help. I guess I'm one of the few people he might still listen to. Hopefully." She grabbed a stick with her left hand, chucked it across the lawn. The sharper end stabbed savagely into the dirt. "Enough about Todd. Ignoring everything I said for a moment, you actually look kinda cool with all those scratches, you know."

"Um – cool- _er_ ," Joe corrected.

"Whatever you say."

" _Cooler._ It'll heal in like, three days though, so don't get used to it."

"I'll keep that in mind. But seriously…" She glanced at his face. "…it's sort of rugged. Handsome."

"We're… still talking about me, right?"

"Yeah. Still talking about you." Alice smiled gently.

Joe gulped. He raised his hand and touched his cheek; there was a thin scratch from when Todd had thrown him to the floor. "You look nice too," he said slowly.

"Oh. Really?"

"Yeah. Your hair's really pretty – I mean, you always look nice, but—"

"Joe."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." Her laugh glittered in the air. Swiftly, she leaned sideways and pecked him on the cheek.

Joe recoiled. "Hey!"

"What?"

"People can _see_ us!" he whispered.

"Who? The street's empty." She looked around. "There's literally no one here."

"Trust me. This one time I was home alone, and it turns out Charles can see our entire house from his bedroom window."

"And what were you doing home alone that Charles wasn't supposed to see?"

"Nothing. But it's embarrassing—"

Alice grabbed him in a tight hug and brushed her lips against his cheek. Joe tried to pull away again, then decided that was more effort than it was worth. _Embarrassing or not… why resist? That'd be_ really _stupid._ He could feel himself going red. _One kiss, two kisses, three—_ He squirmed, half-way between enjoying it and wanting to—

"Okay, I'll stop." She let him go, rolling her eyes, and gently nestled her head upon his shoulder. "Better?"

"Sure." That was nice; that steady weight, warmer than the sunshine. Joe put one arm around her back, leaning against the steps. _I don't know why this feels awkward, sometimes. It shouldn't._ They sat together, watching the road as the last kiss still tingled on his skin. Gradually, the aches and pains seemed to fade. Joe wondered exactly what level of… touching… he'd be comfortable with in public, then thought they should probably go inside before his imagination got the better of him.

Alice sighed. She took a deep breath, holding it for a moment, like a skydiver gripping the door of a plane, looking down at the ground far below. Then she jumped.

"There's something I should tell you," she began.

Joe glanced at her. _Something's up._ She was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched a little. Uncertain. He hadn't seen that expression on her in a while.

"A couple of weeks ago, while you guys were busy at the army base – my mom came back."

"…What?"

"Yeah."

"Your _mom_? But – I thought she – I thought—"

"That's about the reaction I had."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His mind leapt back to the photograph he'd seen in Alice's bedroom: the round-faced woman with curly auburn hair. "Why now?"

"I don't know. She didn't say. She just… knocked on the door, out of the blue. I mean, there was nothing technically _stopping_ that from happening, 'cause I always knew she lived sorta close, but it's literally the first time I've seen her in seven years. How's _that_ for messed up."

"…Could be worse," he murmured, instantly hating himself for saying it.

"Sorry. I know." A bitter smile. "But it was a hell of a surprise."

"Was she… okay?"

"Sure, I guess. A bit nervous. The strangest thing is that nothing really happened." Alice shrugged. "We talked for a bit, pointless stuff. Argued, kinda. Then she left again. Don't know if she's coming back or not." She glanced at him, waiting for a reaction. "Maybe it'll be another seven years."

 _I still barely know anything about this person. How this all fits together, what happened, what could make it better… I never wanted to ask in case I said something wrong._ _That didn't stop Alice from trying her best to help_ me _, though._ "I bet it won't be that long," he said reassuringly. "If she came to see you, it has to be for a reason."

"Does it? What reason could even _matter_ at this point?"

"I'm not sure, but I reckon she'll come back – and you'll be prepared, this time, so you can figure out what you want to do, what to say. All that stuff. Was your dad home?"

"No. No, he wasn't. I think she planned it that way."

"Then are _you_ okay?"

"Me?" Alice almost looked surprised by the question. "Sure." She sat there for a long moment, tapping her fingers. Joe stayed quiet, waiting patiently for her to continue. Words were difficult.

"I mean, I— I spent the first half of my life with this person, right? Then spent the next half without them. I did love her… used to. Obviously, 'cause she was my mom. _Is_. Was. Eventually, when she left, I came terms with it. Took a while, but it was a big part of my life, you know? I changed, eventually. Changed to make it work. Now that she's _back_ , though, it changes again and I can't reconcile the person I remember whoever she is _now._ Who _I_ am now. I almost had a sense of closure but now it's been blown wide open and it feels really, really strange. Does that make sense?"

Alice stared at him.

"It makes a lot of sense," Joe replied. _Too much._ _What doesn't is why didn't you tell me before?_

"Because it's my problem. Not anyone else's."

"Alice, that— what?" _Did I say that out loud?_

"It's my problem," she said again. "It's my life. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to figure it out for myself."

* * *

A sliding metal entrance gate barred her way, locked tight: 'Yasogami High', it said on the thick concrete pillars either side.

The school was closed. Rise groaned. _They must have sent the students home early. Predictable, given everything that's occurring in this town… or what isn't. God, I wish somebody would have the courage to tell me what's going on._

_But that's why you're a journalist, isn't it? So you can find out for yourself._

She pressed her face up to the gate, peering through the aluminium bars. The school was a wide, three-storey building: simple and blocky, like something a kid would build from Lego. Rows of tall windows lined its facade, split by the gaps between each classroom and the next. It seemed deserted. Doors shut, bike racks empty. Trees and bushes dotted the grounds, splashes of colour disrupting the concrete monotony.

The fog remained, thick and depressing. It made you want to rub your eyes in an attempt to snap the world into focus. Details faded into its soft white haze. Sounds were absorbed into unsettling silence. Try as she might she couldn't make out any movement; no silhouettes behind those tall windows. _No wonder people started acting strangely, if they were surrounded by this wretched smog every day._

"You shouldn't be here," a voice said behind her.

She squeaked like a strangled puppy. " _Eeeep!_ "

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice belonged to a middle-aged man, slightly balding, wearing a crumpled suit. A pair of tiny glasses perched on his nose, shielding a pair of dull, lifeless eyes. He was short; even though Rise wasn't particularly tall, he only came up to her shoulder.

"You… must be Mr. Yamada," she said, realisation dawning. "I set up a meeting with you."

"You did," the man replied. "I told you not to come."

"Then why are you here?"

"So I can tell you to leave."

 _Touché_. Rise stared at him, calculating. The man stared back, impassive. A flurry of wind swirled past the gates, making the tendrils of mist sway and shiver.

"You were the principal of the school, correct?"

"I was."

"You might be able to help me, then."

"I might." The man exhaled, peering down the street. "You said you were from a magazine?"

"That's right. I'm doing a story on Inaba," Rise replied.

"I'm surprised they let you."

"Well, 'let' is a strong word. I'm doing this off the record."

"I see. Then, once again, I urge you to leave. Stop what you're doing and go write about baseball games, or celebrity gossip, or whatever it is you normally do. Good people shouldn't get caught in the dark."

"The answer is no," she said firmly. "No, I'm staying. At least until you tell me what happened at the school."

"The school… you _are_ stubborn. Though I probably should've guessed from your phone call." He trailed off, rubbing his nose. "To be honest, the best way to understand it is probably to see it for yourself. But that, I'm afraid, is not possible."

Suddenly, there was a flash of brilliance at the far end of the road – headlights. Oncoming cars.

"You should go," Yamada said.

"Why? Who is it?" Rise asked.

"I'm not sure."

The lights came closer, dark shapes looming behind them in the mist. Rise squinted. A low rumble reached her ears. Soon the vehicle at the front was half-visible, a large grey truck. The convoy slowed, pulling over to the side of the road, and behind the truck was some kind of huge armoured—

"It's the army," Yamada hissed. "Run!"

"What? Why?"

"They can't see you here! You have to run!"

"What do you mean, I _have_ to?" she said, confused. "We aren't doing anything wrong. What are you so afraid of?"

"Just go, _please_!"

She was about to ask another question when the glint in his eyes made her pause. There was real belief there, she realised. Pure, unadulterated… dread. It startled her.

 _Fine._ She turned and ran, down the road along the front of the school, shoes slapping on the pavement. She looked over her shoulder and saw Mr. Yamada standing before the gate, small and afraid. Unmoving. _What about you? What will they do? Why do I have to hide when you aren't?_ Regardless, it wasn't long before he was swallowed by the haze, and she slowed down to catch her breath. The street was quiet, empty. The lights remained visible in the distance as a faint white glow.

Speculatively, she glanced at the school's fence to her right. It wasn't very high; easy enough to climb over. _And while I'm here…_ Rise stepped into the garden bed and reached up, grabbing the top of the wall with both hands. With a soft grunt, she leapt up, swinging her legs over so that she was sitting on the top.

_BANG!_

A deafening crack split the fog. Its echoes bounced from building to building: _B_ _ang, bang, bang, bang…_

"What was that?" she whispered aloud. _Loudest thing I've heard all day._ Against her will a pit of worry started to form in her stomach. It sounded like a firecracker. Or a gun. "Mr. Yamada?" she said softly.

A flash of movement from the direction of the gate. _BANG! BANG- chink!_ A burst of concrete erupted beneath her, splintering over the road.

"What the _fuck_?!" Rise twitched and hastily slipped off the wall, into the schoolyard, almost falling to her hands and knees. _I think – I think someone shot at me! They tried to SHOOT me!_ The sound echoed. _Bang, bang, bang, bang…_ She whirled around. They wouldn't be able to see her _–_ the army, the police, whoever they were _–_ but she could hear voices, sharp and loud on the other side of the gate.

There wasn't much time to consider her options. The school building loomed before her, its glass entrance beckoning. _They'll be locked. They have to be_. Instead, she skirted along the front of yard, running past doors and sets of tinted windows. The school block seemed endless – _who knew that these kids needed so many fucking classrooms_ – but eventually split off, with covered walkways leading to a smaller building on the right. She took the path through the centre, pausing for a second to check for pursuers. No one there. _Still, let's not take any chances._

She kept moving. Here, undercover, the fog was even thicker, pressing down like a murky blanket. Vision range was ten metres or less, enough to check where she was putting her feet but not much else. _If I can make it through to the other side of the school, I can climb the back fence and get the hell out of here. Come back to investigate when it's a bit less dangerous._

 _I think someone tried to_ shoot _me! Shit!_

She came to a wide expanse of grass; couldn't see the other side. Sports field, probably. If she'd been able to see a little further, or was thinking a bit more clearly, she probably would've noticed that the ground was… wrong. Cracked. Uneven.

But she didn't.

Before she could react, the ground vanished. Dirt cracked, grass collapsing beneath her feet, a thin crust sliding sickeningly away like frost on a lake. She didn't even have time to scream before she was falling, down, down amid an avalanche of sand, a distance her brain said was _too_ far down until everything vanished into darkness.

* * *

Martin and Preston waited for the schoolbus, ready to head home after a long Friday afternoon. Martin cleaned his glasses, wiping them with a small cloth. Preston flicked through a dog-eared fantasy novel, searching for the right page.

Then Preston put the book down, laying it on the bench beside him. He stared into the distance, thinking.

"'They're here'," he murmured. "What does that mean?"

"...I'm sorry. What?" Martin sneezed.

"Bless you. The alien machine, in the barn. It said 'they're here'."

"Oh. That." He put on his glasses again. "I don't really know."

"Because 'they' implies 'alien' in this scenario. 'Here' obviously implies they're on Earth. And we all know how that turned out last time."

"With a bunch of people dead and everything on fire?"

"Yeah." Preston frowned. "That stuff we found in the lab alluded to other aliens, which is freaky enough on its own, but how would the silver thing know anything about them? Why would it print messages in English? Who actually _made_ the machine? It doesn't make sense."

"I've already given up on things making sense," Martin replied. "We've done pretty well so far."

"Yes. We have. But it's like... a kid, playing with a gun. If they don't know what it is, it's basically pure luck deciding whether they shoot themselves, or somebody else, or put it away safely without hurting anybody."

"I'm not a fan of similes, but I get what you're saying. We're the kid, right? That's dark."

"It's not dark. It's realistic," Preston said.

"Come on, cheer up. It's the weekend."

"I _am_ cheerful. I'm always cheerful." He sighed, tilting his head. "The problem is that we don't have information. I don't know what it's doing or what it means and I don't _like_ not knowing."

"But we're close to figuring it out, aren't we?" Martin shrugged. "The device, whatever it is, has been pretty helpful. We turn it on, see what it says. Maybe something good will happen."

"Maybe. Maybe." He grabbed the book. "Maybe not."

* * *

"Charles, there's someone at the door for you!" his mom called out.

"Tell them to come in!" he yelled back.

"She doesn't want to!"

 _...She?_ Slowly, his pen came to a standstill, half-way through a line of dialogue. The scene on the page was taking shape; tomorrow he'd send it to Joe for a second opinion. Curiously, he got up from his desk, ignoring the screaming pair of twins throwing toys at each other across the hall, then made his way to the front door.

Rachel was standing on the mat. Arms crossed, pink hoodie tied around her waist. She looked vaguely unimpressed.

"Um… hello?" Charles said nervously. _What is she doing here?_ He tried to avoid looking too surprised but couldn't help a slight smile.

"Hi," she replied. "You seem happy."

"Do I?"

"Yes. You're smiling."

"Oh. Well, it's just that I wasn't expecting any visitors. Not that you shouldn't come to visit –or should. I mean, you can come any time. Or not! But it's – it's a surprise."

"A nice one, I hope."

"Oh, yeah. Definitely."

"Good." For a brief moment, Rachel grinned, and that tiny change made her whole face light up. _Woah_ , Charles thought. _You should do that more often_.

Alarming quickly, the grin disappeared. "Let me come," she said determinedly.

"Uh. Come where?"

"Wherever the place is you're going tonight. I know you're planning to test that silver machine. Let me come."

 _Ohhhh, damn. Uh oh. Damn._ Charles tried to remain expressionless but there was a reason he liked being behind the camera instead of in front of it. _Who the heck told her? How'd she figure it out?_ "I don't think we have any plans, honestly," he began. "Maybe the others were chatting about something else—"

"Hmmm," Rachel said. It was a long, drawn out _hmmm_ , one that said ' _Do you want to be murdered? Because this is how you get murdered.'_ She regarded him with a hard, jet-black gaze. (They were nice eyes, he noticed. Probably would've been nicer if they weren't so annoyed-looking.)

"Rachel, I swear. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then you won't mind if I mention this trip to your parents?"

"Uhhh – no?"

"Okay." She stepped forwards to push past him through the doorway.

"Alright, alright! Wait!"

She paused, one arm on the door, Charles blocking the way. The eyes were even nicer up close. _Get a grip._ He took a breath, clearing his head. "Maybe… maybe we are going somewhere. Theoretically. Hypothetically. Why do you wanna come?"

"Because you're—" She hesitated. "Because you and Alice are the best friends I've made since I got here, and it isn't right if you keep sneaking around behind my back. Either we're friends, or we're not."

Charles blinked, mouth half-open. _We ARE friends. We are. E_ very _time I ask for help, you never even think before saying yes. The way you just get on with it and DO stuff is amazing._ _But, despite all that... we never were completely honest. Why? Because… because we were scared. I guess that's pretty shitty._ His thoughts stretched into an awkward silence.

"I know I'm new. I know you guys are going to do things without me; I've accepted that. It's fine. I'm guessing that whatever you're working on is important, and you've got decent reasons. But I want you to realise that I _can_ help – if you want me to." For a millisecond, her mask of certainty fell away, replaced by something much more vulnerable. Then it returned.

"Rachel…" He swallowed. "Rachel, I really like you. I think you're awesome. I really do. If it were totally my decision, I'd tell you everything right now… but you might not believe me."

"You'd be surprised."

"Maybe. Unfortunately, though, it isn't up to me."

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. Searching his face for answers. Charles stared back. _Oh, what the hell._

"Twelve o'clock, Crystal Drive," he said. "Can you be there?"

She nodded imperceptibly. "I can be there."

"Good." He grinned. "Bring something warm. Don't get caught."

Rachel stepped back, into the sunshine, another smile playing across her lips. "I never do." Charles waited in the doorway, feeling curiously pleased.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"No problem. But seriously – don't get caught."

* * *

Cary's mother awoke to the sound of crying. It only took a few seconds for her brain to drag itself into wakefulness and she gazed at the ceiling, listening.

The little one was crying again. She'd been having bad dreams, lately. Dreams could be scary when you were three years old.

Sandra rolled over, turning to her husband. Derek was still fast asleep – mouth open, tiny snores whistling through his nostrils. _Better not wake him_. Quietly, she extracted herself from the bedsheets and stood up, padding out of the bedroom and into the hallway.

As she passed the door to Cary's bedroom, she noticed that it was open, just a crack. She paused, thinking, then knocked softly on the wood. "Cary. Are you up?" No reply. She knocked again. "Cary. Sorry, but can you help? Sophie's having nightmares again."

The silence was strange. Her son was usually a light sleeper. "I'm coming in." She pushed the door open, reached for the light.

She wasn't quite sure what to do when she saw that the bed was empty.

"Cary?"

* * *

" _You got me runnin' goin' out of my mind,_

_You got me thinkin' that I'm wastin' my time._

_Don't bring me dooowwn, no – no – no – no – no…_

_I'll tell you once more, before I get off the floor, don't bring me down."_

Six out-of-tune voices sang along with the lyrics, plus one that was content to whisper the words under her breath. The acapella melody wound cheerfully through the trees as they trekked through the forest. It was nice when a song had been on the radio a bunch of times so that everyone knew the words. Second verse:

" _You wanna stay out with your faaancy friends,_

_I'm tellin' you it's gonna beee the end,_

_Don't bring me dooowwn, no – no – no – no – no…_

_I'll tell you once more, before I get off the floor, don't bring me down."_

Preston thrashed on air guitar, bopping his head while Cary hopped behind him, aiming for a high note. The judges would've awarded him A for effort but C for actual skill; the resulting girly _screech_ made the song collapse into a wave of giggles (and probably scared the heck out of any sleeping wildlife).

"And _that_ , Cary, is why no one wants to be in your band," Martin grumbled. "That was going well before you started."

"Hey! I never said I was gonna sing," he retorted.

"Then what?"

"Drums, duh."

"That's probably the best choice," Joe replied. "I bags guitar."

"Keyboard!" Preston called out.

Single file, they transported their equipment along the track that led up to the radio tower. The tower, along with a weather station and a couple of other abandoned buildings, was perched upon the peak of Mount Hawthorn – a rather generous name for a large hill a few miles west of town. They'd figured it would probably be helpful to have clear air when testing the alien communications device (if that's what it actually was) and the radio tower was a convenient location far from any potentially inquisitive bystanders. The nights were getting colder, wind getting sharper as summer faded into autumn. Everybody was rugged up in jackets and jumpers, since warmth disappeared quickly once the sun went down. Charles carried the silver machine, balanced on his shoulder like a fishing rod, while the others held the usual crop of movie gear.

"Is it heavy?" Alice asked curiously.

"Not really," Charles replied. "It feels like plastic."

They ducked under a low branch, moon shining through the canopy above. Boots crunched on fallen leaves. The air throbbed with a distinctive, mossy smell that made Joe want to sneeze. Suddenly, the forest opened up into a clearing: a few fallen trees had forged a gap in the vegetation, a lopsided patch of empty ground that revealed the open sky.

Charles stopped abruptly. "Here," he decided. "We're filming here."

"Um… you sure?" Martin asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well, the scene's supposed to be a repeat, isn't it? It looks kinda different to the—"

"This is a forest. The other place was a forest. I don't think people will notice." Charles shrugged.

Preston glanced at the antenna on his shoulder. "Shouldn't we do the… freaky stuff first?"

"It's called multitasking, Preston." He set the silver tripod down, leaning it against a log. "We've got time. Joe?"

He peered at his wristwatch. "…Quarter to one."

"See? It's fine. It'll literally take ten minutes."

"As long as you haven't changed my lines again," Martin muttered darkly.

"No, Martin, I haven't changed your lines. I did that, like, _one_ time."

"Three," Rachel murmured.

"Keep in mind we actually have to sleep at some point," Alice said. "I don't know about you guys, but I kind of need my eight hours—" Suddenly, an emerald glow came to life beneath her fingertips. She froze in shock, looking down, before her face burst into a smile.

"Guys, _look_. It's a firefly."

The insect crawled slowly along a bent blade of grass, pulsing with soft green light.

Then another light appeared. Then another. Then more, like someone had hung fairy lights all through the trees and suddenly switched them on. A few dozen fireflies emerged from the darkness, some nestled amongst the leaves, others flying lazily overhead, illuminating the forest in subtle shades of green and gold. Amber lanterns floated among the branches. Tails glowed in the shadows.

"Cool!"

"Woah…"

One by one they walked into the clearing, surrounded by the amazing sight. Cary darted forwards, trying to catch one in his hand; the insects fluttered away from him in a smooth green wave. Joe tip-toed to where Alice was standing, gazing at the sky in wonder.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she murmured.

The insects blinked, mixing with the stars. Speedily, she reached forwards and snatched one out of the air.

"Don't squash it," Joe said worriedly.

She didn't. Alice opened her fingers and the firefly was there, resting in her palm, soft and green. As they watched, the glow made her skin seem even paler than usual. Bright, dim. Bright, dim. A spark.

"It's so ephemeral," she said quietly.

"Cool word," he replied.

"Haha, I guess so. It means it's… weak. Short-lived. But still, it's shining with all its might. Thump, thump, thump. Like a heartbeat."

They stared at the insect, its warmth reflected in their eyes. Alice closed her fingers over it and raised her arm; then opened her hand, letting it go free. Wings fluttered, a whisper of sound, tracing a quick spiral into the night. Across the clearing, Martin and Preston sat, leaning close and watching lights rise from the grass.

"Did you know firefly larvae are carnivorous?"

"No, Preston, I didn't."

"They particularly enjoy snails."

"Oh. Great."

"Apparently the glow is used by males to attract females, for mating purposes. Look over there."

Charles and Rachel stood beneath a pine tree, surrounded on all sides by tiny stars. The fireflies bobbed and weaved, sketching twinkling trails across their vision. He turned slowly, grinning like a lunatic, almost afraid to move. _This is perfect._

"This is cool, isn't it?" he said cheerfully.

"Yeah. It's cool." Rachel smiled, the air filled with happiness. When she breathed, it felt like she was _supposed_ to be there. In this forest, in this place where the deep blue shadows were split by specks of life. With these people. She glanced at the boy next to her, and wondered if she could ever… it almost made her regret telling her father about sneaking out.

_Why. Why did I do it?_

She hadn't told him what they were planning, exactly; she'd protected the details. But she'd mentioned that – perhaps – they might be going to the radio tower tonight. And that – perhaps – interesting things might happen. She was only being safe, wasn't she? It was a good idea to have someone who knew they were, just in case the rest of night went… poorly. She remembered her dad's expression when she'd told him, that curious mix of gratefulness and anxiety, and she knew that she was doing the right thing. By him, at least.

Maybe not by her friends. _It's extremely hypocritical, calling Charles out for lying to me when I'm perfectly happy to do the same to him._

_Wrong thing. Right reasons. I wish I didn't have to._

_I do have to, though. I'm sorry._

She stared at the fireflies and their calming radiance, trying not to think about it.

* * *

Alice pushed her through the forest, her hands tied behind her back. She wasn't resisting, not exactly, but she was doing her best to look confused. She'd never had to act confused before.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rachel said calmly.

"You do. You have to," Alice replied.

"Seriously, I'm telling the truth. I have no idea. This is crazy."

"You're lying." She shook her head, frustrated. "You're stalling. This has to be some kind of trick."

Martin trudged along behind them, looking warily over his shoulder.

"You keep saying I'm supposed to kill him," Rachel continued. "Does it look like I could do that right now? You say I have a gun – but I don't, because you definitely checked. Why are you so certain—"

Abruptly, Alice stopped in her tracks. "Then…" She stared directly at her captive. "Something's changed."

"What's changed?"

" _Something_." She whirled around, looking at Martin now, desperation creeping into her voice. "Something's _changed_."

Martin rubbed his chin. Then frowned slightly. "I know," he said.

Her jaw dropped in shock. "You _know_?"

* * *

A fine layer of drizzle pattered through the treetops, dripping to the muddy ground and onto damp jackets and coats. Beneath the branches, it remained mostly dry, but every now and then a larger drop would come sliding off a leaf, ambushing the travellers below. Joe shivered as one splattered down his back, wiped it away with chilly hands.

"There it is," Charles said. He pointed through the trees. "That's the radio tower."

"We know, Charles. We can see it," Martin replied.

"I was _just_ making sure—"

"…I bet Martin wouldn't be able to see if we stole his glasses," Cary said speculatively.

"Don't, Cary. Don't you dare."

The rain had started pouring maybe fifteen minutes ago, right after they'd finished filming. Alice had said that was lucky; everyone else agreed it would be luckier if it hadn't begun to rain in the first place. Though it wasn't heavy, it was relatively constant, and the ground was becoming unpleasantly slippery. Clods of dirt and dead leaves stuck to their shoes and jeans.

"I wish it'd stop drizzling," Preston muttered. "My parents'll kill me if I catch a cold."

"Yeah. Rain makes this a lot less fun, huh," Alice said.

Joe shrugged. "I bet Batman never thought saving the world was fun. He did it anyway, though. 'Cause he's Batman."

"Joe?" Cary said.

"What?"

"We're not Batman."

"Do you know who has fun while saving the world?" Charles asked. "James _Bond_ has fun while saving the world. He gets to go to parties, drink alcohol, drive fast cars, kiss girls… hey, we're here."

They emerged from the treeline, onto the summit of Mount Hawthorn. Here the ground had been flattened and the forest cleared away, creating space for a small complex of buildings. Most of them looked to have been abandoned for years: mould-stained walls, cracked windows, supports rusted by years of wind and rain.

In the centre of the area was a large concrete pad, ten by ten, its surface split by spiderweb cracks. Tiny shoots of vegetation had wormed their way through the cement with surprising determination, forming a springy green carpet. To the left was a one-room building, like one of those temporary offices you saw on construction sites – roof sagging, a small shed behind. The barely-readable sign above the door said ' _Bureau of Meteorology_ '. Across from that was the radio tower itself: up close it seemed to stretch remarkably high, tapered sharply from its base to its distant tip. Assorted dishes and antennae dotted its exterior while a maintenance ladder climbed through the old, rusted girders. At the top, a red warning light blinked against the moon's pale glow.

On the right side of the peak there was a larger structure. Joe couldn't quite make out what it was; some kind of old bunker or shelter. It was half-sunk into the earth, made of thick concrete, empty windows revealing a pitch-black interior. A broken-down pickup truck lay on the ground before it, vines twisted round its axles.

"You were right," Rachel said. "That wasn't too far."

"Yeah, see? It's only 'bout a mile." Charles turned, looking at the abandoned buildings. "I didn't realise all this stuff was up here."

"Didn't there used to be an observatory?" Preston asked. "Or is that perched upon a different hill."

"Different. That's Mount Sharp, I think."

Their torches had attracted a small cloud of insects, and one by one they switched them off. Outside the trees it was light enough to see by and everyone was bored of slapping away mosquitoes. They trudged to the middle of the concrete pad where, beneath the grime, a large red 'H' was visible.

"Helipad," Joe murmured.

"Huh." Alice frowned. "Why would they need that here?"

"Because this is a military outpost," Rachel said. "Or it was."

"What?"

"That bunker." She pointed. "I've seen that same construction a hundred times – these outposts were made to be identical. It was probably built as an observation post during World War 2, with the tower and the weather station added later."

"…As long as it's not an observation post _now_ ," Cary said cautiously.

"Does it look like one?"

It didn't. The bunker was deserted, rivulets of water streaming down its surface and pooling on the helipad.

"At the moment, the only thing this place is good for is beaming M*A*S*H reruns to my TV," Charles muttered.

"Or Three's Company," Joe added.

"Or Dallas," Preston said.

"Woah woah woah." Cary snorted. "You watch _Dallas_?"

"Hey, my parents like to hog the remote, alright? I take what I can get."

They needled each other about TV choices as they assembled the silver machine (though, to tell the truth, it'd done most of the assembling itself). The centre of the helipad seemed like a nice, open spot, so Charles plonked it down in the middle, supported by its three slender legs. Joe looked up, shielding his eyes; unless it was his imagination, the rain was getting heavier. _Great. Just in time._ Long strands of cloud cut across the sky, though most was still clear. Martin helped Charles with arranging the various pieces. The dish and antenna were unfurled from the top, rotated to aim at the heavens. The control panel – that first, tiny piece they'd started with – blinked at them invitingly, mounted to the central column.

"Okay, okay. What about Family Feud," Martin suggested.

Alice shrugged. "It's alright. If I _had_ to watch something, I'd probably choose Wheel of Fortune though. Are we totally sure we wanna do this?"

"Argue about TV shows or talk to aliens?" Charles said.

"The second one. The point is, we are making a _huge_ assumption that this thing talks to…" She stared pointedly at Rachel, who scratched her nose innocently. "…anything."

"Honestly, I'd thought we'd kinda decided by being here," Joe said.

"Sure, but – I want to be certain," Alice said carefully. "I want to be certain that we're all on the same page. Are we?"

The group exchanged an inquisitive glance. No one wanted to be the first to disagree, or at least kept any concerns to themselves. _What concerns could you possibly have, anyway?_ Joe thought. _The cubes, the alien tech, it's all been relatively harmless so far. Though maybe we shouldn't be so optimistic._

He noticed Charles giving him a sidelong glance. _'What do you think?'_

Joe shrugged imperceptibly. _'It's up to you.'_

Eye-roll: _'Thanks. Super helpful.'_

The rain drizzled. Charles puffed out his cheeks, like he always did when faced with a question with no clear answer. Then he sighed quietly. "Fine, let's do it – if there aren't any objections."

" _Finally,_ " Cary muttered. "As if we have a choice. How else are we gonna find out if it works?"

"I hope it does," Preston said. "I don't think I could handle the anticlimax otherwise."

Charles wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. "Anyone else wanna do the honours?" he asked. "No? No? Thought so. Martin, can you film?"

He knelt down in front of the control panel, then cautiously reached out to touch the silver. As usual, he was rewarded with a soft _bloop._ Above them, the sky stretched wide and it reminded Joe of a giant mouth, almost. _The biggest mouth in the universe._ Stars twinkled in the early morning air, the faint glow of the Milky Way splashed across the horizon. Forest formed a jagged boundary between the earth and the night.

 _What if it does work?_ he thought suddenly. _What then?_ _We haven't thought that far ahead. What if… what if it sends a message? What if something actually does come back?_

_What if HE comes back?_

' _Cooper', his name was. It sounded like 'Cooper'. And I don't think he'd want to come back._

* * *

_You're standing on a hillside, alone. It's dark. For a few moments all you see is blackness. Then patterns. Then colours. Then, the comet, streaking toward Earth. Alive. This thing that is coming is ALIVE, reaching out to strangle and devour whole worlds, and it is coming here. It is coming to Earth. Fire strikes the burning sky. The ground shakes as if worlds are being shattered. It is coming here because of you. It is coming here because you DARED to—_

* * *

Joe was suddenly filled with a sense of unease. Something was wrong. Something _felt_ wrong. _But what_? Charles pressed the control pad again, making tones of a different pitch. The machine flashed blue; his exploratory fiddling was getting somewhere, at least.

Charles looked up. "Anybody got any great ideas? I'm pressing stuff when it lights up, but…"

"Is it labelled?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah, sort of. There's like, a little symbol for—"

_fire strikes the burning sky_

"We should stop," Joe said.

"What?"

"I think we should stop. I think… I think something isn't right."

* * *

At the bottom of Mount Hawthorn, a pair of army jeeps turned off the highway, onto the bumpy hillside track. Ryan Yukimura sat in the passenger's seat, gazing apprehensively at the road, worrying about his daughter. Beside him, hands on the wheel, sat a man who'd introduced himself as Lieutenant Forman. In the back were two soldiers, carrying rifles. Tires screeched in protest.

He hadn't expected this when making the call. He hadn't been intending to make one at all. But some of the things which Rachel had said… she'd been trying to hide something. Very carefully. Mentions of 'cubes' and 'silver machines' revealed information she should never have known, not in a million years.

So he'd made the call. And that had made certain people _very_ antsy (namely Lieutenant Forman and some other high-ranking officers). The jeep's headlights cut through the night and he peered out the window, trying to spot the radio tower. There it was – a red dot shining above the woods.

Then, below it, was a faint blue flash.

* * *

"Joe, what are you saying," Martin began.

"I feel – I feel like—" A scythe of pain erupted in his forehead. He clutched his skull, staggered forwards. _because you DARED to—_

Alice grabbed his shoulders and caught him before he fell. "Joe, are you okay? What's wrong?"

"That. _That_ is." He gulped down a breath. Managed to point at the device. "They lied to us."

" _Who_ lied to us?"

"I – I don't know! But he was trying to tell me the whole time! I didn't pay attention, I didn't think it was important, but it was!"

Alice stared at him, concern shining in her eyes. Then she turned to Charles. "Stop it," she said firmly.

"Stop it? I'm not sure how to—"

"Just _try_ , Charles!"

"Okay, okay!"

Before he could even blink, the ground turned blue. A shockwave of azure light burst from the machine. It rippled over the helipad, then the buildings, then vanished into the forest, and moments after it came an enormous sound, so vast and deep it was _felt_ more than heard, striking the earth like a drum. The leaves shivered.

"Um… what was that?" Cary asked.

Suddenly, the satellite dish began to twitch back and forth. Faster, faster, stopping and starting with impossible precision. Charles backed away, nearly slipping in a puddle. The tip was tracing coordinates in the sky – no discernible pattern, or one too complex to see. Once again the ground flashed blue, the light sweeping over damp clothes and skin with an eerie electric tingle. Joe's headache was gone but the hairs on his arms were standing straight as needles.

Nothing, for a few seconds. No one moved.

"Wouldn't it be funny if it _does_ turn out to be a bomb?" Preston whispered.

"Don't you fucking say it," Cary replied.

Then a third blinding burst – not on the ground this time, but in the sky. Directly above their heads materialised a circular sapphire light, just for a millisecond; a door opening and closing, somewhere past the moon.

 _A door_ , Joe thought. _That's what we've made._

Then, another door: a blue flash.

Then another. Then another. It looked strangely similar to the fireflies in the forest, and Joe tried to keep count at first but the flashes kept arriving faster and faster, high in the sky until there must've been a hundred of them plastering afterimages across his vision. _A sapphire galaxy._ The machine whirred, its surface steaming as rain splashed off silver.

The doors snapped shut. Dark once more.

But not for long. Different lights were swiftly growing from the blue – yellow, burning, unbearably bright – and _moving_. Each left an arcing trail as it travelled of what appeared to be pure fire.

 _Something's here_ , Joe thought. _For a few moments all you see is blackness. Then patterns. Then colours. Then, a comet, streaking towards—_

"It's like… shooting stars," Alice murmured. "A hundred shooting stars."

Preston nodded. "A meteor shower. I've never seen one this big."

"Did – did we do that?" Charles asked incredulously. "Did we summon a freaking _meteor shower_?"

Joe narrowed his eyes. _Did we?_ These weren't regular meteors, zipping across the sky in an eye-blink; they were much slower, brighter. More powerful. _Are they coming closer? Yeah_. The spots of radiance were expanding rapidly, becoming difficult to look at, tails growing more and more, the combined glare from their passage now throwing faint shadows across the hilltop. The strange blue portals must've somehow spat them out: the sky was utterly _filled_ with them. Eerily, every trail had a consistent direction.

"Are they coming towards us?" Martin asked.

"Yes. They are," Rachel said grimly.

"That can't be right. We didn't just—"

"Guys, those rocks are aiming _right for us_."

"Crap, what do we do? Guys, what do we do!?"

Shock and disbelief pinned them in place, mesmerised by the sight. Seconds passed in a heartbeat. _There's so many. They're so big._ A starburst of flame was converging on the hilltop, a swiftly-closing ring of light from which there was no escape (it might've been strangely beautiful if you weren't trapped inside it). Joe wiped the rain from his eyes. Still the lights grew, grew till he could actually _hear_ their blazing roar, till the nearest fireball loomed large on the horizon, appearing to move faster and faster as it came closer… closer… till suddenly the thing was _way too close_ about to exp—

The air burned. It skimmed the treetops, throwing fire across the forest.

"RUN! GODDAMN RUN!" Cary screamed.

They ran.

* * *

" _Don't panic." —Douglas Adams._

* * *

The first meteor, if that's what it was, collided with the hillside about a hundred metres distant. First a huge flash, light flaring between the trees – then before anyone could blink a huge thunderclap _ripped_ through the night.

That was the sound of the world ending. Joe clapped his hands over his ears, every instinct telling him to curl up into a ball and hide and he crouched just as a wave of heat and force washed over them. Sheets of rain whipped through the air and anyone who wasn't on the ground was thrown back, Alice falling onto her knees, Cary tumbling sideways like a twig in a hurricane. Joe looked up to see a huge cloud of fire rise from the forest, fierce and bright, flames swirling above the trees. Then, a shadow: a swarm of branches and mud and rock advancing faster than—

"Get down!" Charles yelled.

The debris from the impact burst from the treeline. They flattened themselves against the helipad and Joe caught a glimpse of Martin and Preston lying side-by-side just before the world went dark, wet dirt and sand splattering their faces. He twisted round, saw a branch as huge as half a tree whip by overhead and flinched, but most larger wreckage was deflected by the buildings at the edge of the pad – until a lump of rock came screaming through the gale, spinning off the weather station's roof and tearing it clean off. _BANG!_ Chunks of plaster spewed upward and a metal beam skidded right between Charles and Rachel, sparking wildly on the concrete.

"Shit! What was that?"

"Stay where you are!"

Five seconds later – it felt like longer – they were miraculously still alive. Joe uncovered his head as the last bits of mud sprinkled down, fiery glow fading on the horizon. He glanced around at the sudden devastation. Everybody seemed to be okay. Soaked and covered in dirt, but okay. He looked up, saw the sky filled with light. _More coming. We need to GO._ He got to his feet unsteadily, offering a hand to Alice who grabbed it, skin slippery in the rain.

"Anyone hurt?" Charles asked.

Cary winced and touched a graze on his elbow, blood trickling down his forearm. "Sort of."

Preston raised a hand. "Do psychological scars count?"

"No! Don't joke around."

"I'm not." There was a weird kind of quiver in his voice. "We should go before— uh oh!" Another brilliant flash. Much further away, opposite direction. Orange flames streaked above the forest and they whirled around right as – _BOOOOM!_ The meteor exploded milliseconds before impact and the resulting shockwave flattened trees in a wide ring around it, bits of burning forest spiralling into the night. The ground shook. Joe steadied himself with muddy shoes.

"What the _frick_ is happening?!" Martin screamed. "This is in _sane_!" As if to match his desperation the rain poured even harder, heavy droplets lashing from the sky. Wind swept across the hilltop.

"Let's go inside!" Rachel shouted.

Alice stared at her, confused. "Inside _where?_ "

"The bunker!"

"Did you SEE what happened to that building?" Cary said frantically. He pointed at the weather station, roof ripped away. "That's not gonna help!"

"It's still safer than out here!" Rachel insisted. "There'll be tunnels underground, we can hide inside—"

"How do you know?"

"I told you, I've been inside one before!"

"What we NEED to do is get off this mountain!" Preston interrupted. "That silver machine is obviously attracting the meteorites, so if we get far enough away…" The antenna had been knocked over in the commotion, blinking blue as it lay in the dirt.

Joe glanced at it worriedly, then at the sky. Another fireball was skimming low over the horizon, approaching from the north. "Guys, we have thirty seconds. Talk faster."

"It's safer underground," Rachel said firmly.

"It's safer the farther we run," Preston shot back.

"What if something catches us? We won't stand a chance."

"We won't stand a chance if a gigantic space rock crashes through the ceiling! There's a hundred of those things up there, one of them's bound to hit! Charles?"

"Um…" Charles took a step back, jacket streaked with dirt. "I think we should stick together?"

"And?"

"And…" He looked at the bunker, dark and foreboding, then at the track that led down the hillside. "Argh, I dunno - I haven't exactly been in this situation before have I! Joe, what do you think?"

" _Me_?" He twitched.

"Yeah, you're the one with the alien mind-powers!"

"Wait, I don't – that's not how it works!"

"Hurry up," Martin hissed, "hurry up hurry up hurry _up_ —"

"RRRGHG! Fine!" Charles groaned. "Let's… let's get the hell out of here. Preston, you're sure?"

"Of course I'm not sure but I do NOT wanna stay."

"I'm with him," Cary said.

Rachel shook her head. "You're making a mistake." Swiftly, she took a step towards the bunker; Charles reached out to grab her.

"Rachel, it isn't _safe_! We have to stay in a group. Please!"

She paused, turning, rain falling between them. Her dark hair was twisted damp behind her shoulders, exposing her face, making her seem… younger. More afraid. She bit her lip, something wavering in her eyes.

"Trust me!" Charles said.

Whatever it was, it snapped. Without another word she spun and ran towards the bunker, disappearing into the gloomy doorway.

"Crap!" Cary muttered.

Alice frowned. "We should follow her."

Lights danced in the sky. One punched through the clouds above, flaring bright, exploding into five different chunks. The first four screamed past in formation, making them squint as trails streaked over the woods. Charles barely noticed, still staring after Rachel's shadow with a shocked expression.

"Guys, maybe she's right," Alice said. "Either way, we have to—"

Something supersonic crashed into the ground near the radio tower. Its path ripped a furrow across the hilltop _way too close_ and the helipad didn't stand a chance – concrete tearing like paper, throwing huge clods of dirt into the air – almost tearing through _them_ too. One moment Joe was talking to his friends, half-an-eyeblink later he was staggering back from the trench that'd suddenly appeared in the hillside. He hunched over, shielding his head and there a sharp loud _snap!_ as whatever had hit met unexpected resistance and spun off into the dark.

Gradually, the dust cleared. Bits of cement bounced off his shoulders. Joe coughed, something caught in his throat, went to check that six people were still standing. _One, two, three, four, five, where's— oh, right. Last one's me._ The meteor's path had been arrow-straight, etching a metre-deep chasm between them and the bunker. Then it'd slammed head-on into the building itself: huge wounds in its front face, the entrance and surrounding walls caved in.

* * *

Ryan Yukimura watched in horror from the jeep as light converged on the hilltop. A couple of the fireballs were passing overhead and he leaned forwards, watching through the windshield. They weren't flying quickly like shooting stars; they were slower, more controlled, like aeroplanes. _What in the world?_ Then – a gold flash on the horizon, as sharp as a bomb going off and seconds later the ground _jumped_. Lieutenant Forman wrenched the wheel sideways, entire forest shaking in unison.

Swiftly they pulled over onto the side of the road, the other pair of jeeps screeching to a halt behind them.

"What are you doing?" Ryan asked confusedly.

"Waiting," the Lieutenant replied. He tapped his fingers on the dashboard.

"My _daughter_ is up there!"

"I realise that. Do you know what else is up there? Very large explosions." As he said it there was another burst of light, red afterglow rising above the trees. The Lieutenant shook his head. "We're turning back."

"No! We should see what—"

Forman picked up his radio. " _Vehicle two, vehicle three, return to the highway. We're waiting for… whatever this is to blow over."_

Ryan stared out the window, pressing futilely against the glass. He was trapped. So close, and yet so very far away. _What's happening up there, Rachel? What on earth did you get yourself into?_

* * *

"So much for the bunker idea," Cary said.

"Rachel's okay, right? I'm pretty sure she's okay." Martin rubbed his glasses worriedly.

"Probably," Alice murmured. "She was pretty far in before it hit…"

They stared at the forty-year-old building. Even if it had been built to withstand a bomb, 'supersonic space wreckage' was probably outside its specifications. The doorway was a mass of crumbled metal and cement, walls around it shredded to rubble.

"How are we supposed to get in?" Joe asked. "Windows?"

"They're barred," Preston replied. "And we don't. We _run_."

Charles sucked air between his teeth. "I don't wanna just leave—"

He was interrupted by an enormous metallic _groooaan_ from the radio tower. Joe spun around. Whatever had torn through the helipad must've glanced off the tower's supports and the whole structure was leaning towards them at a slightly unpleasant angle. He looked up at the tip, blinking in the rain. Another groan. It almost sounded like it was sick.

Behind it came the next meteor, racing low over the forest, crashing through the treetops in a flurry of cracking wood and suddenly— _BOOOM!_ Fire bloomed, white-hot, abruptly snuffed out by the ensuing tempest of mud and leaves. No time to think as they flattened themselves against the ground, Cary and Martin diving for cover in the trench, Joe and Alice running the other way. Visibility was immediately cut to zero and he felt Alice grab his arm just before the shockwave punched them back. _Is this the third one? Fourth?_ The meteor must've hit a couple hundred metres away but the wind and the darkness and the all-encompassing roar made you forget where you were, which way was up and somehow the world seemed to spin until they were both lying on the ground. His ears rang, an annoying high-pitched whine.

Joe held on tight until the air cleared. Alice wiped her face with her sleeve, eyes red. "Still alive?" he murmured.

She nodded.

The others were huddled by the bunker on the other side of the helipad. "Joe, come on!" Charles shouted. "We're heading down the western road— shit! Heads!"

He heard a metallic screech behind him; the radio tower had nearly pulled free of its moorings, now balancing on two of four legs, leaning precariously over the hilltop. The latest impact was the last straw. For an awful, interminable moment it seemed to pause mid-air, waiting… then it tipped. Right towards them.

Alice's eyes widened. "Oh my god."

"Guys, RUN!" Cary shrieked.

From beneath, the tower looked as tall as any skyscraper. Girders twisted at its base as it leaned further, faster with eerie inevitability. Sparks flared up and down its length as electrical cabling ripped in two. Joe realised he'd been staring at it far too long and began scrambling out of the way, first on his hands and knees, then clambering to his feet. His fingers were locked round Alice's wrist and he felt her dragging behind at first; then she was running beside him across the concrete, glancing over her shoulder at the tower – falling, falling, wind whistling through the beams – till they leapt away with a stomach-clenching gasp and _CLANNNGGG!_ It smashed into what was left of the helipad, fifty metres of rusted steel, antenna at the tip snapping clean off and spinning away into the night. A shower of sparks erupted from the wreckage.

Joe skidded to a stop, breathing heavily. "Holy _crap_ ," he murmured. "Holy crap." The tower lay flat against the ground, diving the hilltop in two. He couldn't see Charles and the rest but they were probably on the far side—

" _Joe? Alice?_ " Cary's voice.

"We're here!" Alice yelled back, grimacing. She looked at Joe, a desperate glint in her eyes. "Where are you?"

* * *

"The other side, I think!" Cary shouted. Beside him, Preston picked himself up off the ground. He pointed at the sky, muttering under his breath. The fallen tower lay before them as a mass of mangled girders.

" _We'll try and go around!_ " Alice replied. " _Or maybe climb over—"_

"No!" Charles interrupted. He came up behind Cary, limping slightly. "Follow the tower, we're gonna use the western track! We can meet up there."

" _'Kay, we'll head this way. See you soon."_

Silence on the hilltop, apart from the crackle of distant flames. Even with the storm, some of the forest had caught alight. Cary sighed. All of his clothes were _completely_ soaked through – jacket, shirt, pants, socks, underwear… the fabric stuck damply to his skin, itching when he moved. _At least no one'll be able to tell when I piss my pants._ And still the rain wouldn't let up, falling steadily, transforming the earth into an ever-deepening pool of black mud. He blew on his hands, shivering in the cold.

Charles tapped him on the shoulder. "You alright?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Then _come on_."

Charles dragged him over to where Martin had planted himself in the dirt. The taller boy was sitting cross-legged, hunched over, seemingly ignorant of the water pooling round his ankles. He wasn't moving.

"Martin, get up," Charles ordered. "We're leaving."

"I am staying _right_ here," was the mumbled reply.

"Get up."

"Nope."

Cary knelt down next to him. "Don't be stupid." He grabbed Martin's arm and tried to pull him along but the boy only flopped forward, staring at him with mournful eyes. _Shit, he looks like the most miserable person ever._ "Martin?"

"What?"

"Get the _fuck_ up. Start being frickin' useful." Cary heaved, managed to move him a couple of centimetres before Charles came to help and together they lifted him onto his feet. He staggered forwards, dead weight.

"What's the point?" Martin murmured. "We'll never outrun those things. It won't make a difference."

"That's no excuse to not even try!" Cary yelled frustratedly. "God, you're so _dumb_ sometimes!"

"That's not very nice—"

"Cry about it later!"

Suddenly, there was another explosion to the left, other side of the bunker. The earth shivered; a cloud of muck erupted into the air, showering over them, and Cary sneezed on the harsh cordite smell. Thunderous echoes rolled across the hills.

"That's our signal to _leave_ ," Preston said. No one needed to be told twice.

Cary started running. They sprinted along the edge of the helipad between the buildings and the fallen tower, Cary slipping in the mud, Charles pulling Martin along behind him. Soon they reached open ground, forest ahead, thick with smoke; Cary stole one last look at the bunker, noticed that the rear of it had been damaged by some kind of… pod? The thing was three metres tall, egg-shaped, surface glittering beneath a layer of grime. It lay in a shallow crater with strange ridges stuck to its exterior. "…the hell?"

"What?" Preston asked.

"The things that are hitting us – they might be—" A bright glint appeared over his shoulder, growing swiftly. "God-dammit!"

" _What?!_ " Preston asked again.

"Left!" he yelled. "Left left left! Dodge left!"

They switched direction, skidding on the grass. Martin was now moving on his own at least, arms pumping, breath wheezing in his lungs. Cary felt a second wind flow through him and raced ahead, decided to aim for the closest patch of trees. That felt safe… ish. _Almost there_. He glanced behind them, saw the meteor zipping closer right above Charles' head. "More left!"

He darted sideways. The others followed in a clumsy, panicking conga-line. For a few lovely moments he wondered if they were about to be squished like bugs, then Charles saw the meteor too and let out an "Oh shiiiiiiiii—"

_BOOOOM!_

Something streaked into the hillside about twenty metres to the right leaving fiery tracks in its wake. Cary felt its heat sear his skin but the only thing to do was keep running, keep running through the cloud of smoke, keep running as mud slapped you in the face, keep running away from the huge, flaming ditch that whatever-it-was left behind as it tore down the mountain. He suddenly tripped on a half-buried rock and slammed shoulder-first into the ground.

"AAAH!" Something cracked. He cried out in pain.

"Cary, hurry!"

"I'm coming!" He rubbed his shoulder, got to his feet. _Nothing broken._ But here at last were the trees, the thick vegetation offering some semblance of cover (and hopefully fewer fireballs). _Where's Alice and Joe?_ _We were supposed to meet 'em, weren't we?_ Branches whipped past on either side as they fled, ferns and bushes catching at their legs. The others were mere silhouettes in the darkness ahead.

And then there was light – bright white light, like the sun shining at their backs.

"Right!" Charles barked. "Turn right! That thing is coming for— NOT THAT RIGHT, CARY! OTHER RIGHT!"

 _Oh. Whoops._ He zig-zagged the other way, chasing Charles' yellow jacket. _Booom!_ Another impact in the distance. He dodged through the tree trunks as the earth rumbled, leaves shivering, fat raindrops breaking free of the canopy. Orange glow to the left. And then, suddenly, orange everywhere, and smoke, and warmth—

He almost collided with Preston's back, clutching at a branch to stop himself. The others were all standing, staring in disbelief at the huge _wall_ of flame that stretched across their path, blocking the way down the hill.

"Why is there fire?" Martin moaned. "It's raining! THINGS SHOULDN'T BE ON FIRE!"

They were, though, and it was spreading fast. Flames leapt from branch-to-branch, crackling, consuming the undergrowth. _One of the meteors must've crashed straight through here._ Cary could feel that familiar angry heat on his face, could hear the hiss of steam as fire met water. It'd been a dry summer. One wet night wasn't going to change that. The blaze edged towards them, casting flickering, dancing shadows.

"Back the other way," Charles said nervously. "We'll have to go around."

There was smoke coming from the east, too, and Cary wondered how long it'd take for the flames to surround them. The rain would slow it down some, but… _remember the other fire? It was raining that night, too, which didn't help you when you dropped your stupid lighter on the desk. Didn't help when the powder blew up and set all the curtains on fire, and the carpet too, and the door to your sister's room. It was cool though, wasn't it? All those colours, all that noise in that tiny space, so pretty, till it jumped to the roof and basically burnt the whole friggin' house do—_

"CARY!"

He blinked. The flames were bare metres away, searing hot. He took a step back, shielding his face with one arm.

"Cary, come on!" Charles yelled. "What are you _doing?_ "

 _Great-friggin'-question._ He slapped both his cheeks, _hard_ , then caught up to the others - they were making their way downhill, skirting along the fire-front as best they could. Charred wood and ash floated on the breeze. Cary could still hear occasional impacts in the distance, but unless he was imagining it they were getting further away. Then another wall of fire cut them off; sparks erupted as a rotting branch gave way, thumping to the ground in front of them, incredibly hot.

"This is worse," Martin said.

Preston coughed. "Worse than what?"

"The train crash! I mean, at least that thing was over in like, three minutes – this just goes forever! There's FIRE everywhere, and STUFF keeps trying to murder us—"

"What stuff?"

"Meteors, obviously! Actual meteors!" He rubbed behind his ear, and his fingers came up wet and red. The fire roared. "What did we DO?! I mean, we DID this, right? This is our fault! Us and that stupid - silver - MACHINE!" The ground shook.

Cary spotted movement on the far side of the flames. He squinted through the smoke; was it a person? No. Two people, walking close together, one of them with long blonde hair.

"Guys, I think…" He pointed. "Is that Alice and Joe?"

"What?" Charles nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Yeah, I think that's them. Look."

They all paused for a second to watch the distant figures. The pair were jogging along the mountainside, picking their way down a particularly rocky section. Charles cupped his hands over his mouth and bellowed at the top of his voice: "JOE! JOE, OVER HERE!"

For a brief moment, one of the figures seemed to turn; then a dazzling glow thudded against the slope in a torrent of force and thunder, enveloping the figures and everything around them in billowing smoke and mud.

Cary's eyes widened. "Holy _crap_ did they just—"

* * *

Alice staggered down the hillside between a couple of boulders, coughing, eyes stinging, searching for – _there_. A leg sticking out from underneath a branch. The meteor had hit the mountain above and bounced straight _over_ them, whistling through the trees with a noise like a banshee. She'd been thrown sideways, getting a faceful of dirt but Joe had disappeared somewhere further down the slope. Alice skidded to a stop next to his body; he was lying on his back, arms all twisted, a huge tree-branch pinning his chest. Eyes closed.

"Joe?"

He didn't move. She knelt down, grabbed the branch with shaking hands. The bark was rough, the branch heavy and she didn't want to simply drag it off, so she took a huge breath and bit her lip and somehow managed to lift it a couple of inches; wasn't going to be able to hold it there for long and shuffled sideways quick, teeth gritted, trying to carry it far enough away to—

"Rrggh!" Alice grunted, letting the branch drop next to his body. Her hands ached. Good enough. "Joe! Joe, wake up."

His face was… serene. Tilted to one side, perfectly at odds with the half-wrecked woods around them. She stepped over the branch, reached down to shake his shoulders. Still wasn't moving. But he wasn't _dead_ , he couldn't be, it'd only been a fall… Now she was crouching next to him, rest of the world fading away. She pressed his chest with sweaty palms. "Joe… please wake up. Please!"

She _thought_ she could feel his breath on her skin – slow, faint, barely there – a graze on his forehead leaking blood, but he, he wasn't… Alice swallowed. _Don't panic._ He looked so _calm_. She touched his neck, feeling for a pulse and screamed as loudly as she could. "JOE!"

* * *

From nothing came… something. Darkness, cold, confusion, pain. The first thing he became aware of was a loud ringing in his ears; the flicker of thoughts in the back of his mind, there but not-there.

The second thing he noticed was Alice's face, staring only a couple of inches from his. He blinked.

"Joe! Hey." She grinned with relief. "You okay?"

Sudden brightness. He blinked a few more times to clear the grit from his eyes, took a breath, tried to talk but could only manage a hoarse croak. He ran his tongue round the inside of his mouth, attempting to get rid of that scratchy dryness. A strange coppery taste was on his lips. _Did I bite my tongue or something?_

"I'm… I'm alright," he murmured eventually. "What happened?"

"One of the meteors came pretty close to us. Thank god you're not hurt."

"Ugh." He shifted onto his side, was rewarded with a jolt of nausea. He waited for a few seconds in the chilly air, before Alice helped him into a sitting position. His head swam. _Like when you wake up unexpectedly at 3AM... and then get trampled by a rhino._ The skin on his cheek was red and raw. Burned, maybe.

"Do you think you can walk?" Alice asked.

"Sure. Probably?"

"I can still feel those things hitting the mountain. We're not far enough away yet."

He stood (cautiously) on legs (wobbly) using one of the boulders for support; soon enough, the queasiness faded. He gazed at the burned, splintered trees while a trickle of rain wormed its way down his back, making him shudder.

"Let's go," he said determinedly. _Think about the complicated stuff later. For now, we need to work on surviving._

"Okay." Alice wrapped her arms around him briefly, warm and tight. Then they started picking their way through the vegetation.

And not a moment too soon. There was a muffled thud in the distance – then another, closer. Joe glanced behind them at the lights in the sky, saw one split into whirling fragments as it sliced through the storm.

"We should run," Joe said.

"You sure?"

He nodded. "You go. I'll keep up."

Alice began to jog through clumps of ferns, past groves of trees with tangled branches. Joe clenched his fists and forced himself to run, concentrating on keeping himself upright. He counted down the seconds in his head. _Five, four, three_ — Three detonations behind them, quick and sharp. The forest flickered red and gold... shards of wood whipping overhead... then suffocating blackness as the shockwave tore past. Alice tripped, stumbling into a dead tree trunk and a second later Joe hit it too, stopping himself with his arms.

"Come on!" Alice vaulted over the log, grabbed Joe's arm and pulled him after her. "Down!" They took cover as another shotgun-blast thumped into the mountain. Fire shot up with clawing fingers, one enormous tree shattering, twisting, eventually falling in an unstoppable crash of leaves. Debris hissed and burned as it whipped across the slope. Alice had a quick peek over the log, ducked back down as a rock whizzed past in a gale-force spray of mud.

A moment's silence.

"We're good, I think," she whispered.

They kept running. Forest flashed past on either side. Joe realised he still had his torch and switched it on, beam sketching a pale cone in the night. Abruptly, the slope became shallower, the hill levelling off. _We can't be at the bottom, not yet. We've come maybe half a mile?_ It meant they could move faster though and they rushed through the leaves, until suddenly the torch beam seemed to fade and was swallowed by open air—

"Woah!"

The hill disappeared. Somehow they'd stumbled upon a cliff-edge, the mountain dropping precipitously before them and Joe planted his feet in the dirt just before he slipped over the brink. Alice nearly went over too, arms flailing in panic.

"What the hell?"

He crept up to the precipice, heart in mouth. Past it, the earth sloped steeply downwards, near-vertical, a few brave trees and shrubs clinging to the sheer, uneven surface. Rocky outcrops dotted mountainside. Maybe thirty yards below, the forest resumed (it was hard to tell in the darkness) and a rapid wave of vertigo made him take a step back. It wouldn't be good to fall.

"Can we go around?" Alice asked.

"I think so." He glanced sideways, eyes following the cliff-face. It'd probably been formed by some kind of landslide, and the edge eventually curved to rejoin the rest of the hill. Trickles of water leapt off the lip, miniature waterfalls. The ground was slippery and – very carefully – he began to make his way along the—

 _Crack!_ A sonic boom reverberated across the countryside. They whirled around.

A smaller meteor was carving through the heavens, too brilliant to stare at directly. It wasn't going to hit them... not quite. Until, unexpectedly, its path _changed:_ bobbing upwards like a kite on the breeze. _Or an aeroplane. Which is only possible if it can control its flight, which is only possible if these things aren't simple rocks?—_ It _slammed_ into the earth not far uphill. The forest cracked, plumes of dust spearing outward. The trees whispered.

_Uh-oh._

Then came the shockwave. Wood, muck, burning debris. Joe ducked instinctively but something hot caught his backpack and he twisted sideways, flinching from the flames… realised he was spinning entirely the wrong way. _Crap!_ His feet slipped as the ground trembled and far too quickly the cliff-edge was _right there_ , empty air beckoning and he suddenly knew he wasn't stopping before the – _I'm gonna fall I'm gonna fall oh crap why the HELL didn't I—_ Wild panic. He threw out his hand as he skidded over the edge, had the briefest glimpse of Alice launching herself towards him.

"Joe! Grab my—"

He fell backwards off the cliff, a scream building in his throat…

…till a pair of hands clamped themselves tightly around his wrist. He dropped a few terrifying feet before physics kicked in, jerking to a halt, swinging face-first into the cliff. _Ow._ He grunted, heard a gasp of pain from above; twisted to see Alice lying on the precipice, holding on with a vice-like grip.

Joe looked down. Felt his stomach churn. The forest was a long way below. "Thanks," he murmured breathlessly.

"Don't mention it." Alice winced, arms shaking. "Can you climb back up?"

"Think so." There was a thick tree-root by his head and he clutched it with his other hand; tried to find something else to stand on but the slope was too steep. His feet scraped uselessly against the side, aching in that way they did whenever you were too close to a long drop. _Hey, aren't you happy now about all that rope-climbing they made you do in gym?_ He twitched, shuddering uncontrollably. _Holy crap._

"You good?" Alice asked.

"Yep."

She got to her knees, trying to pull him up as Joe held on for dear life. _Don't think about the height, don't think about the height…_ His arms burned. Then, Alice glanced behind her at some unseen threat. "No…"

He paused, breathing hard. "What?"

"No. No no no no no—" Her face was pale as a ghost.

"Alice, what's happening?"

"One's coming."

A dazzling yellow glow began to bloom at the top of the cliff - like a new day's sunrise, making her hair sparkle in the rain. And with it, rapidly approaching, came a dull, static roar.

She stared at him fearfully. "I'm gonna have to jump."

"What do you mean you have to jump?!"

The roar grew louder. The glow had nearly consumed her, thunder loud in their ears.

"Joe…" Blue eyes, soft yet piercing. "Whatever you do, don't let go." She swallowed, gripped his hand even tighter – then hesitated.

"…Alice?"

"Don't let go."

She slid forwards as the light grew brightest and threw herself off the cliff.

Two desperate shapes, joined by locked fingers. Alice sailed over him, eyes wide, then _down_ right as a meteorite screamed over their heads. _And there's the sunrise_. It passed barely twenty metres above, tendrils of fire clutching air, heat blasting against their faces. It was almost enough to make him let go.

Almost. He felt Alice's hand in his, felt her fall past him with cut-short scream and jolt to a stop somewhere by his feet; it was near-enough to wrench his shoulder from its socket but he kept hanging on, kept grasping the slippery tree root that was the only thing holding them up. She swung into the mountain, scrabbling for handholds while behind her the fireball arced towards the forest, hissing, crashing into the valley below.

The familiar flash. Mushroom-cloud of debris. Trees rippled around the crater, the distant spot-fires like candles in the night.

"You okay?" he asked, once the commotion had subsided.

"I honestly have no idea," Alice replied.

She gazed up at him, shivering, covered in muck and Joe did his best to smile. _I probably look worse._ The more immediate problem, though, was that they were currently dangling off the side of actual cliff. He could feel his fingers straining with effort; wondered how much longer it'd be before he slipped. _I do not want to find out._

"Is there anything you can hold on to?" Joe asked.

"Not really. There's something by my feet that I'm trying to—" She grunted. "It's a rock. I can't really stand on it, though."

"Alright. Then maybe…" He wracked his brains. _Can I pull both of us up? Might have to._ But there wasn't time to think about it further, because at that exact moment the whole damn cliff-top evaporated in a cloud of boiling mud. _WHOMP_ _!_ Wood and dirt went flying, entire world shaking in protest; it felt like being punched in the face. A black shape whizzed overhead which somehow must've hit the—

All of a sudden, Joe realised he wasn't holding onto anything anymore. The _cliff_ wasn't there. Neither was the tree root. His hands clutched futilely at nothing. For a couple of moments there was only empty air whistling in his ears and although he tried not to panic it was pretty hard when every nerve in your body was yelling ' _shit shit shit—'_

THUMP! He slammed feet-first into a lower section of the slope, sliding down it for a second before bouncing off again. He clutched at a nearby shrub but the leaves only slipped through his fingers – still nearly vertical, Alice a dead weight below him – the ground was getting closer _awfully_ quick and he was in the air for another half-second before – "Aah!" – he whacked into a shallower part of the mountainside. Pain shot through his legs. They skidded out from under him, falling sideways and suddenly he was rolling, tumbling down the slope. The world spun. He crashed through a bush, airborne, then not, Alice's hand nowhere to be found, breath knocked from his lungs. The mud was everywhere, impossible to get a handhold, slipping and slithering and all he could do was try and avoid hitting any rocks.

Luckily, he didn't. Several sickening seconds later he jerked to a stop at the bottom of the cliff, colliding with a tree trunk in a sudden jolt of agony.

For a long moment, he closed his eyes, heart galloping like a racehorse. The pain faded. _I'm alright. I'm alright._

 _Sort of. I don't feel that much_ worse _, anyway, which is a fairly positive result after falling off a cliff. Right?_ He looked down, grimacing. He had a couple of new scratches, plus a few new tears in his jeans – but that was it. _I guess I'm never wearing these again._

_I can't believe that just happened._

Alice lay a short distance away, similarly exhausted. She got to her hands and knees, groaning; briefly it seemed as if she'd vomit but nothing much came up. "Oh, _god_. Ugh." Gingerly, she crawled towards him, then sat against the same tree trunk, head resting on the bark. For a few moments, at least, nothing could've been more comfortable. _We're okay._

Together, they gazed at the clifftop. A huge chunk had been torn from it by the meteorite's passage and behind, the trees glittered with the flicker of distant flames.

"Do you think we'll be safe down here?" Alice asked.

"Hopefully," Joe said. "The cliff should give us cover, shouldn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess it might actually help. Man, I am _done_."

"Yeah. Definitely done."

"What about the others?"

Joe shrugged. The hilltop, the radio tower, the wrecked bunker… it all seemed so long ago.

* * *

Ten minutes earlier, Rachel had just ducked through the bunker entrance. She was hoping the others would follow her. She was _really_ hoping the others would follow her. _Even if they don't know it, it's going to be much safer underground._

That hope turned out to be insufficient after a fireball ricocheted off the roof, collapsing half the building including the only doorway. Luckily, she hadn't been under it at the time. Less luckily, her ears were now deaf and she was covered in dust and she had no idea where she was anymore. _Don't panic. They'll be fine. You'll be fine._ She knelt down and grabbed her torch from her backpack; the beam carved through the dusty, dark interior like headlights on a foggy night. She turned around. The light flickered over ancient electronics consoles, screens long dead, over control panels and boxes glistening with brown mold. Exposed pipes lined the bare concrete walls.

 _Could be the radar room? That means there should be stairs in… that direction._ Rachel turned left, following the hallway, hoping her memory wouldn't lead her astray. If you ignored whatever was going on outside, the bunker felt curiously… preserved. Sheltered. _Which makes sense, even if it's been abandoned for twenty years. That's what it's for._ The steady rhythm of her jogging was occasionally disrupted by distant impacts, ground quivering, dust trickling from the ceiling.

The next couple of rooms were empty apart from sagging tables and chairs. Last time she'd been in one of these, it'd been full of people. Now, eerily silent.

Or not. _BANG!_ One instant the roof was there; then it wasn't. There was a huge concussion as walls exploded and Rachel was lifted up, shoved sideways – suddenly there was light everywhere, smoke everywhere and her eyes were filled with stars. She coughed uncontrollably, struggling to breathe. Everything stung. Rubble rained from the ceiling and she staggered back, hand over nose till she found a column to lean against. _What the hell?_ There was a gaping new hole in the side of the bunker, ugly and jagged where an object had crashed through. Somewhere inside the billowing dustcloud her torch-beam glinted off metal.

She shook her head to clear it, told herself to focus _._ Quickly, she climbed over the wreckage, moving along the hallway. Concrete splinters crunched beneath her shoes and from behind came an unnerving creak as more of the building threatened to collapse. _Don't be here when it does._ She coughed again, throat burning and tried ducking under the smoke; it seemed to help. Vacant doorways beckoned on either side until, finally, she came to a set of stairs going down.

She staggered onward, into the darkness. The steps were steep and narrow as they dove into the earth and she went as fast as she dared. They ended ten yards below in a rusting metal door.

Locked. She banged her fist against it, echoing in the enclosed space. But there, lying on the ground… she picked up what appeared to be a short steel rod. Half a crowbar. Head pounding, she jammed it into the gap between wall and door and pulled. Pulled. Pulled again.

Suddenly, the lock snapped. _S_ _queak!_ Grudgingly, the door swung open and behind it lay a low, dark tunnel.

"In we go." _At least_ _my memory's good for something._

Her flashlight chewed at the shadows. Strangely, the beam sparkled off the path ahead, and she realised why as soon as she took her first step.

The tunnels were flooded. An ankle-deep layer of water lay stagnant on the concrete – undisturbed for years, now rippling around her feet. Rachel kept one hand on the left-hand wall, steadying herself on the slimy surface. The blackness shimmered, hiding icy promises beneath. _Ugh._

That wasn't going to stop her though. She gritted her teeth as the dampness spread round her toes, then started wading through the muck.

The tunnel stretched into the darkness. Down here, underground, it was the kind of deep, impenetrable gloom you could only get when there was no possibility of light; an all-consuming blackness you could lose yourself in. Decades ago, it would've been banished by globes humming in the walls. Now all she had was a feeble flickering torch. The only sounds were her shoes' splash, the occasional muffled _boooom_ from above. Every now and then the roof would tremble, dislodging ancient dust. She passed shadowy doorways either side, empty rooms all filled with water, and the torch did its best to banish her fears but it was difficult not to imagine things lurking just out of sight.

Abruptly, she realised that the water was getting deeper – almost half-way to her knees already. _Of course… the tunnel's sloping down. It has to, if it exits somewhere on the hillside._

"Huh," she said aloud. _What if the entire network is flooded? I do NOT feel like swimming, and if it gets much deeper the path's going to be blocked._ The thought made her shudder, and she glanced over her shoulder. The steps were barely visible at the far end of the torch-beam. _And if another one of those meteorites comes close and blocks the stairwell, I'm not going to be able to get back out._ _Trapped. Isn't_ that _a fantastic thought?_

 _Well done, Rachel. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea._ She trudged onwards, had a brief heart-attack as her foot brushed something underwater but when she kicked it felt an awful lot like a brick. _No skeletons… I hope._

When the water reached her knees, she had to stop. The tunnel didn't appear to be ending anytime soon.

"Damn." She groaned, leaning against the wall. _At least find a place to wait._

There was another room close by – mostly bare, like the others – but there was a single rusted filing cabinet rising from the damp to sit on. She climbed onto it, a little unsteadily, lifting her shoes from the black water's surface. The torch flickered as it lay on the metal beside her.

She reached for it, hesitating… then pressed the switch.

The world went black. Utterly black. Her eyes searched for something, anything to focus on but there was nothing. Nothing at all. _It's sensible to try and save the battery. There's nothing down here, I don't need to see._ That's what she told herself, anyway.

Rachel hugged her knees to her chest, listening. Shivering. Somewhere, water dripped: a slow, echoing _plink_. Otherwise, silence. _If anyone else is around I guess I'll be able to hear them… unless they can crawl on the ceiling. Haha. Ha. Ha._

"Ugh." She sighed, and settled down to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

As if it would help, she watched the space where the door would be. The darkness there seemed to pulse, swimming strangely across her vision, which she assumed was only her brain trying to give her something interesting to stare at. She resisted the impulse to turn on the light. _That's just giving in._ Although…

…it would've been much easier with people around. She imagined their voices echoing from the walls, cracking jokes, sticking close to make the darkness feel safe.

If only. _I should've stayed with the others._

A muffled explosion reverberated through the earth.

 _Or they should've stayed with me._ A glint of sadness threatened to well up in her eyes but she pushed it down deep inside. In her mind she saw Charles' face, saw his desperation, saw his mouth form those two rotten words: _'Trust me!'_

 _Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. Too late now_ – _you always mess things up, don't you. That's who you are. You always mess things up, because you're afraid. Because you're… alone._

_Shuichi knew that. Maybe that's why he died._

_Maybe that's why you ran away. Because, deep down, you've always been alone._

* * *

_Woof! Woof woof!_

Jackson didn't know how long Lucy had been barking before she woke him up. Hopefully not long enough to annoy the neighbours. He lay on his back, eyes closed, and let out a huge yawn.

"Stupid dog," he muttered.

With a groan he threw back the covers, stumbling to the light switch. It was nearly two in the morning, and the threat of spending a day at the station dead-tired wasn't particularly appealing so he decided to be quick. (Not _too_ quick though, since Lucy sometimes left smelly little presents on the floorboards when she wanted to go outside.)

Jack padded down the hallway into the kitchen. The border collie was there, scratching frantically at the door. When she saw him she let out a small whine. _Woof! Woof!_

"Hey, what's the matter?" Jack asked. "You wanna go out?"

She whined again, tail thumping the floor.

"Alright. Two minutes, okay? Don't go far." He reached to unlock the door, and the dog darted through in a whirlwind of brown-white fur. "You _are_ desperate," Jack murmured. He waited by the entrance, enjoying the cool night air. _I wonder if Joe's still asleep. He's usually the one who lets her out._

_Woof woof woof! Woof!_

"Hey, Lucy! Shhh!"

_Woof! Woof!_

Whatever it was, she was certainly excited about something. Jack shook his head and stepped outside, trudging into the garden. "Stupid dog."

The border collie was sitting eagerly by the road, staring at the western horizon. Jack came up behind her and scratched her ears. "What are you lookin' at?... Huh." There was an orange glow in the hills. And more than that, the sky was filled with light – dozens of what appeared to be shooting stars, fiery tails stretching across the clouds. Most seemed clustered around a single hilltop in the distance.

And, as he watched… one _hit_. A fierce plume of flame shot up from distant forests, hushed and eerie.

"Oh my god," he murmured.

A few drops of rain hit his cheek and Jack wiped them away absently. He glanced across at the neighbours', where old Mrs Anderson had just stepped outside too. She looked vaguely absurd in her crumpled pink nightie.

"You seein' this, Jack?" she croaked. "What on earth?..."

 _Sure am._ Another of the fireballs crashed into the surrounding hills, dazzlingly bright. Lucy barked. _Woof!_

"I don't fancy the look of this," Mrs Anderson said. "Must be the Russians, ain't it? Bastards finally making their move."

"I don't think it's the Russians," he replied. _Because if I were them, I probably wouldn't be launching hundreds of missiles at random mountains. I've never heard of anything like this before—_

Suddenly he noticed that one light was much closer than the others. It appeared to be travelling differently: almost in the wrong direction, wobbling uncertainly as it shot through the clouds. It missed the hills by miles, arcing straight towards Lillian.

 _Uh-oh._ The projectile came nearer, nearer, not deviating from its path. It reminded him of another set of lights – bright blue – which he'd last seen ascending in a steely mist. _It's going to hit us. Whatever it is, it's going to hit us._ The fireball flared.

He could only watch with a mixture of disbelief and horror as it detonated above the steel plant, vaporising a fifty-yard circle of town.

* * *

Eventually, the missiles stopped.

* * *

It was hard to tell exactly how long she'd been down there, sitting in the dark, but Rachel slowly realised that she hadn't heard anything for a while. No explosions, no earthquakes. Only silence. She waited for another few minutes before deciding it was probably safe. _Relatively._ Shivering, she flicked on the torch, and in that moment its pale yellow beam seemed the most beautiful thing in the world – even if it illuminated only water-stained concrete. Cautiously, she slid off her perch, making her way out of the tunnels.

Thankfully the stairs were still clear. As she climbed she listened for movement, for voices, but there was nothing. _Maybe they left?... Or maybe they aren't back yet_. The third, scarier possibility was one that Rachel didn't want to think about.

She wandered slowly through the bunker. Rubble and debris lay scattered in the hallways, covered in dust, water pooling on the floor. The main entrance was still completely blocked, the area around it ruined from the first hit to the bunker. _That second impact, though…_ Rachel made her way to the operations room, where another hole had been ripped in the building's perimeter – scarily large, a ramp of wreckage leading to the hill outside. She clambered through the gap, ground shifting beneath her feet… then stumbled out onto muddy ground, taking a deep breath of fresh, clean air. (Or not quite; there was the definite sting of smoke on the breeze). She cracked her fingers, assessing the situation.

 _Assessment: it's a warzone._ The landscape had been devastated, buildings ruined, trees flattened, the fallen radio tower dividing it in two. Craters dotted the surrounding areas, some still smouldering with red-hot embers, others leaving great streaks of ash and blackened vegetation. The sight was straight out of a disaster movie. _At least it's no longer raining._ _That's something._ And above, the sky was beautifully clear, free of any suspicious lights.

Lying next to the bunker was a large grey… pod. _That must be what hit us – looks like it ricocheted off the outer wall._ The object was round, formed from soot-stained bone. Maybe three metres tall, fat at the bottom and thinner at the top. The surface was lined with a network of deep grooves, each ending in a small, sharp thorn, and it sat on a bed of bulging tubes, half-embedded in the soil. Its rough, organic texture created a faintly insectoid appearance.

It reminded her of an egg, Rachel decided. _An egg laid by Godzilla._ Her gaze swept curiously over its pallid surface. _Obviously this isn't a meteorite – it's more than a lump of rock. But… what, then? Were_ all _of those things like this? I didn't see any others up close._

Frowning, she tore her eyes away. _Look for the others first._ "Hello?" she called out.

Nobody would be able to hear her. Not unless they were nearby. She glanced round the hilltop, searching for… someone. Anyone. From the damage, it was hard to imagine people surviving the onslaught. _You wouldn't even find the bodies._

_Of course, Charles and the others weren't here. They said they'd run – if they were quick, they could've made it far enough away..._

_Could've._

' _Trust me!_ ' Charles repeated in her mind once more; and once more, she turned her back as a falling star sliced its way between them. She couldn't get their faces out of her head – Joe, Alice, Cary, Preston, Martin, all watching her. All _caring._ Panic. Confusion. Worry.

But their faces weren't here. The hilltop was silent. _They're dead, aren't they_ , a quiet voice told her. _Dead, or gone. Take your pick._

Rachel turned back to the mysterious egg, if only for a distraction. Slowly she walked towards it, stopping a few feet from its pale, calloused exterior. The pod towered above her from its shallow crater, steam rising in the chilly air.

Frowning, she reached out to touch it… and had the strangest sense of—

* * *

They sprinted up the hill, panting heavily, dodging recklessly through the trees.

"Joe?" Charles called out. "Alice?"

No reply. Preston, Cary and Martin ran beside him in varying states of disarray. (Cary probably looked the worst, as if he'd recently been excavated from a tar pit like one of those ancient mummies). _I am going to have the LONGEST FREAKING SHOWER when I get home_ , Charles thought to himself. _Who cares about anything else._

The forest around them had been blackened by fire, thin wisps of smoke still curling about the canopy. The rain had extinguished it relatively quickly, though not before it'd made things awfully scary for a couple minutes. Charles wondered what the damage would be in the morning. _Probably pretty bad – I bet the military are gonna be crawling all over this place by sunrise._ The meteor shower had finally stopped – thank god – after a solid twenty minutes of hell.

Soon, they emerged onto the hilltop, stumbling out into open air. And there _—_

Charles grinned. "Hey! Guys!"

Joe and Alice were waiting at the helipad, wandering through the ruins; the two groups turned and ran towards each other, overwhelmed with relief. As usual, Cary got there first, tackling Joe in a huge bear-hug that almost knocked him to the ground.

"Woah, hey!" Joe held him at arm's length. "It's cool you guys are okay."

"Yeah," Cary said. "What the hell happened? We totally saw you get crushed by one of those fireballs."

" _Nearly_ crushed. It was pretty hairy - Alice says I blacked out for a bit."

She stepped forward. "Hey, don't I get a hug?"

Cary shook his head. "Nope, man-hugs only. You can have a fist bump."

(They did a fist-bump. It was awesome.)

Charles came up a moment later, still wheezing. "You guys look like crap," he said breathlessly.

"Well, _thanks_. As if you can talk," Alice retorted.

"Alive crap, though – so that's cool."

"It kinda is, considering what happened to this place. It's insane."

"Yeah, yeah. Have you guys seen..." Uncomfortably, he trailed off.

"...Rachel?" Alice finished. "Yeah. But she's..."

"She's what?" Suddenly, there was a sinking feeling in Charles' stomach. _Don't say it._

"It's – I dunno. It's weird." She seemed at a loss for words. "Come on."

With Joe and Alice leading the way, the others followed them to the area behind the collapsed bunker. There, lying among the rubble, was Rachel: she lay flat on her back, head to one side as if she'd merely fallen asleep. Resting in a pool of water at the bottom of a shallow crater.

"Is she – is she breathing?" Preston asked nervously.

"I think so," Joe replied. "It's hard to tell."

Together, they crowded around her, six faces staring at the unmoving figure.

"One of the meteors must've hit right here," Martin murmured.

Cary knelt, gently pinched her nose. "She doesn't _feel_ dead," he said. "Not that I know how a dead person feels, or anything."

"We should move her," Charles said.

"Yeah." Alice nodded.

The girl's clothes were soaked from the water, dark hair floating calmly on the surface. Her body felt light, limbs unresisting. The rabbit logo stitched on the chest of her jumper looked curiously forlorn. Then, as Charles was about to grab her – there was a soft, almost inaudible murmur.

" _...ready or not..."_ Her lips moved, just a touch.

"What did she say?" Cary asked.

"I'm not sure." Charles frowned. _Here I come..._

* * *

She swam into consciousness as if from the bottom of the sea, thoughts tangling around her like seaweed, memories fleeing like schools of fish, the world becoming brighter and clearer as she approached the surface above.

And then, she woke up – taking a huge, gasping breath.

_"Woah! Rachel?"_

She scrunched up her eyes, wondering why it was so dark... then realised where she was. _I'm inside the bunker again. Must still be night-time._ She sat motionless for a few moments, trying to breathe evenly, waiting for her thoughts to snap back into focus. Worried conversation buzzed in her ears.

_"Are you alright?"_

_"How are you feeling?"_

Eventually, she felt well enough to sit up and answer. "I'm..." She sneezed. "I'm okay."

It sounded feeble. She glanced around, head pounding. They were sitting in one of the less-damaged rooms of the bunker; Charles was there, staring worriedly while another, smaller figure did something in the corner. _Cary_.

"Where's everyone else?" she asked hoarsely.

"Outside, looking for camera stuff," Charles replied. "Some of it got dropped during the meteor shower."

"Ah."

"Basically, Martin lost his backpack. How are you doing?"

"I feel..." She considered it for a moment. "I feel like I got eaten by a cloud."

Charles frowned in confusion. "Soooo... floaty and kinda damp?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Can you sit up?"

She sat up. Her skin was cold. Clammy. Her head felt weird, lightheadedness coming and going in waves.

"I can leave you alone for a minute if you wanna recover," Charles said.

"No, no, it's fine." She coughed. "Thanks."

"Hey, no problem." He smiled kindly, and somehow it made her feel a little warmer inside. She smiled back.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"For about twenty minutes after we found you? I'm not sure how long all up, though. You were talking in your sleep too."

"I... was?"

"Yeah. Just random phrases, mostly. Things like 'here I come'. It was kind of strange."

"Huh. I haven't done that in..." _Years. Or, I don't think I have. That's the problem with doing things in your sleep, isn't it._

"What actually happened?" Charles asked. "After you went into the bunker, I mean."

"I found the tunnels underground. That was good, although they were sort of flooded so I sat and waited for – I don't know how long. The building got hit a few times but it was safe enough. Dark, but... safe."

"Like you said."

"Mmm. Luckily. Eventually, I stopped hearing the impacts, so I went back outside and I..." Suddenly her mind went blank. She stared at the wall, as if that'd somehow fill it back up. "Then I – I don't know."

"You can't remember? Maybe you hit your head on something."

"Maybe. I came outside, and I saw..." There was a gap in her memory where something was supposed to be. _Something important?_

"Don't stress," Charles said. "As long as you're okay. It's kind of a miracle no one got seriously injured. Or worse."

"It is." Again, she imagined a myriad of lights dropping from the sky; the first dreadful bursts of ash and flame, rumbling across the mountain. Thunder. Lightning. _And there I was, sitting in the dark, alone, while the people whom I keep_ telling _myself are my friends were—_

"Sorry," she said quietly.

"For what?" Charles asked.

"For running away."

He frowned. "Don't be. We totally should've listened to you."

"But I left you guys behind… I thought you said we should—"

"Cary!" Charles called out. "Should we have followed Rachel?"

"Definitely," came the reply. "And I'm never listening to _your_ advice ever."

"Hey – first of all, it was _Preston's_ advice. Second, usually he's right." Charles turned back to her. "Seriously, don't worry about it. It was a desperate situation."

He handed her his water bottle and she took a few grateful sips. She hadn't realised how thirsty she was. One thing she did realise, though, was how hurt Charles had seemed, that stunned, frantic expression that was the last thing she'd seen... even if he'd forgotten, or moved on. _At least explain it to him. I can do that much._

_I want to._

_Because that entire bunker idea? 'I've seen this before?' It was little more than a guess. That's it. I was lucky. And next time..._

"Look, I know you said it's fine," she began, "but there's a reason I ran. It's because I'm—" _Selfish_. _A coward._ It was another thing to say that out loud, though. "I ran because I didn't want to feel responsible."

"Responsible for what?" Charles asked.

"For anyone, anything. Another accident. I don't know." _I'm not making sense._

"Accidents?" Cary said, walking over. "I know _all_ about those."

"And when you asked me to trust you," she continued, "it – it triggered something inside my brain, because..." She shook her head. "I trusted people once, long ago. Then they all died. They're dead. I ran across an ocean to get away from them."

_Ran across an ocean… Should've learned by now that running doesn't work forever. Especially for ghosts._

_How am I supposed to explain?_

"So you're scared," Cary said matter-of-factly.

"I used to be."

"Because you thought it was your fault. Because something happened to your friends."

"No, I—"

"Well guess what? Once I burned my house down, which really _was_ my bad. Totally my fault. Could've killed, like, a bunch of people. And you know what?" Cary glared at her. "Instead of being afraid of fire or whatever, I actually LEARNED from being an idiot – don't look at me like that, Charles, it's _true_ – and even managed to save Joe and Alice's lives once BECAUSE I was carrying a crapload of firecrackers around like a lunatic. Bad crap can lead to good crap, is what I'm saying. Don't let shit that happened years ago stop you from doing shit _now_."

Charles nodded. "It's definitely not as serious, but I know a bit about that too – I mean, I feel responsible for you guys! I'm afraid of things going wrong, of people getting hurt, and I make tons of mistakes all the time. You just have to roll with it."

Rachel was silent for a moment. _I don't know if that completely fits, but… I understand your point._ "Alright."

"Next time we'll listen to each other, and it'll be awesome," Charles said. "Deal?"

"Deal."

"Especially if there aren't any meteors around. And there was this quote that we learned in English class – the best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to…"

"…trust them," she finished. She smiled faintly.

" _I_ thought it was kinda stupid." Charles grinned. "But that Hemingway guy was pretty famous. He probably knew what he was talking about."

* * *

They stepped outside, onto the hilltop. The others were scattered amid the neighbouring buildings, combing through the rubble, and gradually they trickled together to form a tired, aching circle at the base of the fallen radio tower.

Rachel couldn't get over how _dead_ everyone looked: pallid skin, haggard faces, eyes half-closed, a grimy layer of mud persisting despite everyone's best efforts to scrub it off. Of course, it made sense when you saw everything else: great gashes dug from the landscape. Huge streaks of scorched earth. Trees shattered by wide, smoking craters and concrete pulverised into little more than dust. _We're still here. That's its own miracle._

As he looked around the countryside, Martin suddenly barked out a laugh. "Ha!"

Preston turned to stare as if he was crazy. "Um, what are you—"

Alice giggled.

Bright and joyful, the sound fluttered down the mountain. For a second it was alone; then Charles covered his mouth to smother a wild cackle, shoulders shaking with effort. Cary soon joined him (and he didn't bother to stay quiet) – then Joe, then Preston too, till everyone was laughing with gigantic grins of pent-up happiness and relief. Not that survival was a joke, but – it felt good to be alive. Laughter echoed across the desolate landscape, strange but also strangely fitting, Charles' rising above the rest. Even Rachel couldn't resist a sharp _snort_.

"Our parents are gonna be _so_ freaking pissed," Cary said, still giggling.

"I don't wanna think about it," Preston replied. "Can I stay over at your place for a few nights?"

"No way, deal with your own problems."

"Okay. The next time you ask me to cover for you, remember what you just said."

"You know the group of survivors at the end of a horror movie?" Joe said. " _That's_ what we look like."

Eventually, the chuckles died down, until all that was left were a few quiet murmurs and the sound of Charles still trying to catch his breath.

"Guys, I was thinking…" he began.

"What?" Joe asked.

"Well, it's pointless to keep this a secret anymore, isn't it? We should tell people the truth. We _said_ we'd tell people, as many people as we can." He nodded at Rachel. "Starting with her."

"Yeah," Alice murmured. "We should."

* * *

Charles took a moment to remember, staring upward. A lot had happened during that summer. A _lot._ He glanced at her – curious, attentive – with a faraway look in his eyes. "You ready? Cause this is a long story."

She nodded.

"Alright." Deep breath. "So, this all started with a train. No, actually it started with a _movie_ , the one we were filming before you came along. This one night, at the beginning of summer vacation..."

* * *

All around the world, approximately an hour after the mysterious lights appeared over Lillian, the skies split in two.

In Brazil, a boy playing soccer in the street stopped to stare in wonder. Blue flares were popping against the clouds, opening, flashing, closing. ' _O que é isso?_ _Fogos de artifício_?' Then someone impatient stole the ball from beneath his feet, and the game was back on.

In Greenland, a soldier manning a remote outpost rubbed his fingers, shivering, his breath turning to mist in the snow-chilled air. A hundred faint dots were flickering on his radar screen. Either the world was ending, or some birds were interfering with the dish again.

In Nigeria, a woman looked out of her aeroplane window and was very surprised to see a dazzling white light arc down past the wing. For a brief moment she thought her plane was on fire; then realised it was much further away, over the delta. She reached for her camera.

In Japan, a grandmother glanced up from her cooking as shooting stars fell from the sky. There was an awful lot of them, zipping over the mountains out there. An awful lot. In eighty years she'd never seen so many… but the beef was starting to sizzle. She turned back to the stove.

In Australia, in the middle of a desert, a mob of kangaroos chewed contentedly on dry grass. Suddenly their ears pricked up; heads turned toward the horizon and the enormous red glow that'd appeared there. Then came the thunder and off they went, bounding across the plains.

Twelve locations total, seemingly unrelated. No one could explain what had happened; those who saw the impacts in person were few and far between, or thought it was a strictly natural phenomenon. Endlessly-replayed news reports were also inconclusive. After all, at each crash site there was only a smoking crater. No debris. No space-rocks. No aeroplane parts. _Definitely_ no oddly-shaped eggs.

Nothing to suggest that very quietly, Earth had just been invaded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is actually a fantastic window into 'which pop-culture things did Justin enjoy this month'. Recently it was Haikyuu, an anime series about a bunch of high-schoolers playing volleyball which somehow turns into the hypest thing ever. Thus, you get a volleyball scene. See?
> 
> The meteor shower was one of the first scenes I envisioned when planning the sequel. For better or worse, it turned out nothing like I imagined. This is because I'm TERRIBLE at planning. (It's annoying when you're intending something to be a semi-climax, and realise you forgot to set up half of it along the way. But I think it mostly works.) Thanks for reading!


	30. The Ghosts of Lillian

* * *

' _Many forms of biochemistry are speculated to be scientifically viable but are not yet proven to exist. All living organisms currently known on Earth use carbon compounds for basic structural and metabolic functions, water as a solvent, and DNA or RNA to define and control their form. If life exists on other planets or moons, it is possible that it will feature quite different chemistries – for instance, involving compounds of another element, or another solvent in place of water.'_

**—The Journal of Astrobiology, Volume 14 (Issue 6)**

* * *

Preston waited across the table from his parents. His mother sat arrow-straight, staring piercingly over the dark wood, lips pursed in a razor-thin line. His father was slightly more… relaxed, if you could call it that, his bookish face suggesting an air of disapproval. Apart from the _tock_ of the grandfather clock, it was deathly silent. Just past 3AM.

Preston swallowed. Even that tiny movement felt loud as a gunshot. He was still wet and muddy from the hilltop, and, very carefully, he placed one hand on the table.

It left a smudge of dirt on the wood.

Very carefully, he removed the hand. His mother stared piercingly at the mark; then at him. She wasn't the type of person to get angry very often, but when she did… well. There was usually a good reason. Most of the time, Preston tried to make sure that reason wasn't him.

Too late now, though. The air was hot. Sticky. His nose itched, and he was about to scratch it when—

"I'm not angry," his mother said calmly. "I'm disappointed."

* * *

Cary's dad _was_ angry. "What the hell were you thinking, sneaking out like that?" he yelled. "I thought we were past this! This, this crazy stuff!"

Cary grinned. "Dad. Dad, the whole _world's_ crazy. I'm basically normal."

"Shut it! This isn't _normal_. I thought you'd grown up, after the fire, I thought you were better than this. Stop smiling!"

The smile grew wider. He couldn't help it; it was some kind of defence mechanism. _'Cept it usually makes things worse, obviously_. He could hear his sister crying in the other room, his mom trying to calm her down. "Dad, you look _really_ weird right now. You should chill."

"Cary! For once in your god-damned life will you take things SERIOUSLY!"

* * *

Martin backed away from his mother down the hallway. She had this _look_ in her eyes, the one she always got when she couldn't quite comprehend what the world had dropped in front of her, and as she advanced, reaching for him with claw-like fingers, it felt worse than one of Charles' horror movies.

"Where were you?" she asked, hair bouncing wildly.

"I told you, I was with Charles! I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I thought it would only be a second—"

"Where were you?" she asked, voice strange and hoarse.

"Mom! Stop! I promise I won't—"

"Where were you?"

* * *

Joe came home to a sticky-note on the door. _"WHERE ARE YOU?"_ it said, in scratchy handwriting. " _I'm out for work._ _Talk_ _in the morning."_

* * *

"Go to your room," Mr Kaznyk said.

"Dad, can I at _least_ get changed first?"

"No, you can't. Wash your sheets tomorrow." That tone sucked any hint of argument out of the air. Charles had been good practice, in that regard. "And in the morning, you're GROUNDED – no phones, no TV, no cameras, no nothing. Forget about doing any more of that movie business."

"WHAT?!"

"You're _grounded_ , young man. And I'm pretty sure the rest of your friends are, too."

* * *

Preston didn't understand how she could be so terrifyingly _reasonable_. Every sentence chipped at his resolve, made him crumble that little bit more, until he wanted to melt away into a pile of muddy clothes on the carpet.

"How could you lie to me like that?" his mother asked.

In the silence, Preston realised he was supposed to say something. "I, um… I didn't _technically_ lie. I mean, you never asked…" He trailed off.

"You didn't technically lie," his mother said flatly.

"Um…"

"THAT'S what you're going with." She shook her head. "You're supposed to be smart, Preston."

He blushed. _Well, being smart at school doesn't necessarily apply to anything else._ His nose itched.

"I'm assuming this has happened more than once," his father said quietly. "How many times have you snuck out like this?"

He briefly considered lying, then realised the irony. "A few."

"How many?"

"Um… three or four."

"Three or four," his mother repeated. "How am I supposed to trust you ever again?"

He winced. Somehow, the combination of her words and expression brought forth a twinge of guilt deep inside. It wasn't something he liked. A dozen responses flashed through his brain: flippant, heartfelt, apologetic, angry. _Maybe if you hadn't been so ANNOYING, I wouldn't have jumped at the first chance to get away. Did you ever think about that?_

"How am I supposed to trust you," she said again, "if you can say, to my face, 'I'm going to bed, see you in the morning' like nothing's wrong and then do – this? Whatever this is?" She waved vaguely at his dirt-covered form. "Do you know how long it's going to take to rebuild that? Because I _did_ trust you. You're my son, I would've trusted you with anything. And now… how can I?"

Preston sat, frozen. It was a hard question.

"I don't usually lie," he said eventually.

"That's not how trust works." She leaned towards him, angled cheekbones in the shadows. "Preston, we agreed that the future you're aiming for is important. We discussed it, as a family. Mucking around with your friends at three in the morning isn't compatible."

_No, YOU discussed it. I just sat there and nodded because I wasn't supposed to do anything else._

"We had an arrangement," she continued. "You're allowed to see your friends on weekends, during the day – just for this semester, till you're finished. Is there a problem with that?"

 _Yes._ He glanced at his dad briefly, searching for help, but that same disappointment was plastered across his face, like a mask. Preston stared at his feet.

"Well?"

"You don't understand," he muttered.

"What?"

"You don't understand. It had to be _now_."

"Why's that?"

"Because—" He ground his teeth in frustration. "Because it did! I wish I could tell you why, but I can't!"

"That isn't good enough," his mother retorted. "You _cannot_ sneak around without asking. You _cannot_ visit your friends without asking. In fact, you can't walk out of this house without asking us first. Is that clear? I don't want to have to do this, but that's how it's going to be."

She turned to her husband, who nodded imperceptibly. "You have to be serious about this, Preston," he said grimly. "The world doesn't reward people who joke around; it rewards people who work. Minor hardships will open all sorts of doors in the future. Don't lie to us again."

As always, it sounded so sensible. So _reasonable._ It was little comfort. Preston sighed inwardly, gazing at his muddy footprints on the carpet, and prepared himself for the worst.

* * *

It sure was fun being grounded.

Cary sat in his bedroom, scratching stick figures into the wall with a blunt pair of scissors. He'd probably get in _even more_ trouble for it later… but consequences were something for future-Cary to deal with.

Martin read a book. It was a boring book.

Preston worked through maths problems. It should've been easy, but every single equation made him more and more frustrated, as if the symbols were laughing at him from the other side of page. He was starting to get a headache.

Joe lay on his bed with Lucy, slowly running his fingers through her fur. She wagged her tail happily while he stared glumly at the ceiling.

Charles threw a baseball at his locked bedroom door. It bounced off the wood, into his hand. Wood. Hand. Wood. Hand. _Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._ He was kinda hoping it would annoy his dad in the living room but he'd only raised the TV volume louder.

Alice, in contrast, _wasn't_ grounded. She'd managed to creep back to bed without Louis noticing – he'd been out late drinking at the bar, which helped – and besides, he didn't really care what she did as long as she didn't steal his car again.

Rachel, too, was left to her own devices. Her father was actually being _more_ accommodating than usual, and mom seemed her usual smiling self. Rachel had a sneaking suspicion that he knew – at least partially – what'd taken place overnight. He didn't ask her about it, didn't ask her where she'd been, but…

 _Dad's giving me space_ , she realised. _He's waiting to see what I do. Waiting to see if I tell him._

_So. Do I?_

* * *

" _They were all together last night?"_

_"Yes, I talked to Sandra and she said that the Haverford boy was there too."_

_"Has Charles told you anything about where they went? Preston won't give me a straight answer."_

_"He did mention Mount Sharp – one of those hills that's close by. He_ said _they only wanted to film at night for the movie, but I'm not sure why he couldn't just ask us, then. We've let them do that before."_

_"I don't think that's the entire truth."_

_"…Neither do I."_

While various teenagers were confined to their rooms, a daisy-chain of phone calls looped across Lillian.

" _Did you see those lights in the sky?"_

_"Yes I did, Mrs. Mills."_

_"'Diane' is fine, Jack. At any rate, it reminded me of the incident a few months ago. You know the one."_

_"Yes, I believe I do. Why's that?"_

_"Otherwise it's one huge coincidence, don't you think? Lillian never used to be like this. Ever since the military came, the world's suddenly become a very mysterious place."_

Preston's mother called Charles' mother, who'd already seen Cary's mother at the shops that morning, who then talked to Martin's parents, who'd then called Joe's dad, who was going to visit Alice's father, until the entire cycle repeated a half-hour later.

_"Do you think they were involved?"_

_"Involved with what?"_

_"With… whatever happened last night. The explosions."_

_"They couldn't have been_ involved _, Barbara. They're kids."_

_"Yes, but – ever since that night in June, things have been… different, with them. You've noticed, haven't you?"_

_"I… have, yes. Have you talked to the girl's father yet? Louis?"_

" _Louis Dainard? No. He's, well, he's a bit off-putting, isn't he? They've been spending time with another girl too, lately, one who recently moved here."_

_"Oh yes, Rachel. I met her the other day. Seemed nice enough. And I agree, something strange is going on. Something which I can't quite put my finger on."_

* * *

Jack Lamb gazed at the impact site, hands planted on his hips. In the bright morning sunlight, the shallow, wreckage-strewn crater was a bearer of bad news.

The steel mill was important. Without the mill, there was no Lillian – an unpleasant fact, but true all the same. Maybe a quarter of the town was employed in some way by those belching smokestacks and red-hot smelters, and now, with a fifty-yard crater carved right through the centre, Jack had a feeling there wouldn't be any more work for a while.

The meteorite had flattened two of the mill's primary processing sheds. They'd been blown over as if a tornado had passed through, rooves gone, walls nowhere to be seen, leaving a heap of corrugated steel and cracked cement in the crater. Collapsed gantries lay in the dirt next to enormous pipes that'd been ripped clean in half. Giant buckets of molten steel had fallen and tipped, slowly solidifying into pools of greyish slag. A lone forklift sat forlornly in the wreckage.

It'd probably take weeks to clean up. Months. The damage even stretched to the nearby road: one lane was blocked by traffic cones, a couple of policemen directing cars around the obstruction.

Jack spotted two overalled workers standing by the perimeter, hard hats by their sides. He walked over to them, flashed his badge. "You guys see what happened here?"

They shook their heads in unison. "Nope. Arrived for work half an hour ago, and the mill… it was like this already."

"You talk to anyone? Hear anything 'bout what may have happened last night?"

"Nope. Sorry officer."

"No problem, thanks for your help." He shrugged weakly. "I'm sorry too."

Jack turned, following the edge of the crater. _Some of the night shift must've seen something, surely. Assuming they survived._ As he watched, a paramedic dragged a body from beneath a girder, lifting it onto a stretcher. _I wonder how many people were inside when it happened. How many people aren't gonna wake up._

It wasn't something he liked to think about. _This is a job for… hell, I don't know who it's a job for. Not a county police department, that's for sure._ But the fire department had been there since two o'clock in the morning, vanquishing the flames, digging through the wreckage. The paramedics had been there since not long after. If the police could help by being an extra pair of hands, then that was what they'd do. Deputies Rosko and Tally jogged past, carrying a replacement fire hose for one of the trucks.

"Morning, Jack," Rosko grunted.

"Mornin'." What else could you say?

The first news crews had started to arrive, setting up on the edge of the road. _What ARE the odds of a meteorite hitting a town? One-in-a-million? One-in-a-gazillion? Just bad luck, that's what this is. Just a whole bunch of bad luck._

 _Or perhaps not._ Idly, he glanced at the hills to the west, where most of the meteors appeared to have landed during the night. No one lived there, thank god, but thick smoke still rose from the woods in a dozen different places.

A whole lotta military, too. Menacing black helicopters thrummed over the forest, swooping low, swarming like flies. No news choppers, he noticed; not like after the train crash. _The air force must be turning them away,_ he realised. _They've set up an exclusion zone down that entire line of hills. Probably blocked off the roads as well._

_Why, though? It's only forest._

_I'm starting to get a_ baaaad _feeling about this._

Jack walked through the wreckage, making his way towards the middle of the crater, looking for anything… unusual. He climbed over a sheet of corrugated steel, kept his balance as it shifted beneath him. Dried blood slicked the edge of the metal. No corpse though. Ducked under a twisted girder, surrounded by the smell of ash. More blood, still no body. But next to it…

 _Huh_. There, on the ground, was a shiny wet substance – like a snail's trail drying in the sun. The damp patch was perhaps thirty centimetres wide, slithering through the rubble. Jack knelt down. _It's not water, that's for sure._ _Glue, maybe?_ Cautiously, he stuck his finger into the inch-deep layer. It felt like jelly which hadn't been in the fridge long enough. Oddly cold.

Until his finger started to burn. "Ow!" Jack swore under his breath, jerked back, wiped his hand on his pants. His skin was red and itchy as if he'd stuck it in a fire.

Jack frowned. His pants were steaming slightly were he'd touched them.

"Hey, Rosko! Get over here! And bring a container, will ya?!"

* * *

Ten minutes after 8PM, Jack barged through the doors of the hardware store. Jerzy, the store's forty-year-old Polish owner, came barrelling down the central aisle like a bull who'd spotted a matador. He waved his hands furiously. "Store closes at eight! Out! Out out out!"

"Yeah yeah, I know." Jack made a few calming gestures. "Jerzy, I need to use your phone."

"Excuse me? Does my store look like a phonebooth to you?

"Police business. It'll only take a minute." He patted the man's shoulder as he strode past. "Is it behind the counter?"

"Jackson, please, I have to lock up—"

"It'll only take a minute."

Jerzy sighed with a mixture of annoyance and resignation. He was a big man, tall, with a long face and thick European beard. Slowly, he circled back towards the cashier's desk, tidying shelves along the way.

Jack had already found the phone and dialled a number, one elbow propped on the counter. He held the receiver to his ear, foot tapping. One ring, two rings, three rings – _click._

_"Hello, this is Joe Lamb speaking."_

"Joe? It's me."

_"Oh. Hey dad."_

"Hey. You've probably already figured this out, but I'm gonna be home late tonight."

_"Okay, I'll find dinner."_

"You do that. And I want you to stay put."

_"…What?"_

"Don't move. No creeping around to friends' houses, no friends creeping over to ours. Got that?"

" _Okay_." A pause. " _Sorry."_

"Instead of saying sorry, just _stay put_. I should be home around ten. I expect you to be there."

" _I will, dad."_

"Good. We'll talk then." He put the phone back on its cradle.

"Police business," Jerzy said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah. Well." Jack shrugged. "That wasn't, but this is. I need something that can hold acid."

Jerzy blinked. "Acid?"

"Yeah, like a container. You got anything?"

* * *

Jerzy locked the store's main entrance with his keys, waving at Jack as the officer slid into his squad car. Soon, the Ford peeled off into the night, leaving him alone in the deserted hardware store.

Jerzy turned and started his walk-around, one last check before he slipped away and drove home. He'd owned the shop for ten whole years and, every year, it got a little bigger (now the biggest in Lillian, though that wasn't saying much). Not one of those chain stores either, he was proud to say. ' _I'm my own boss,'_ was the line, ' _or close to it. My wife's the one who looks after the money.'_ Cue laughter.

Jerzy ambled between the shelves, one hand dragging lightly along the wall. He passed the paint section, endless tins of slightly different shades, then gardening tools, then electrics, cables and fuses hanging from hooks in the wood. He spotted a pack of screws under a shelf and picked it up, placing it in the correct spot. The store was fairly plain – 'functional', he preferred – just shelves of goods, the big glass entrance out front, the offices and storerooms out back. It worked. And it kept costs down, which kept the wife happy.

One thing he _did_ regret was not having a son. Or a daughter, for that matter. Every year they brought it up, and every year it became a little more 'too late'. _Next week, when her mother comes to visit. We should talk about it next week._ The store was nice, but it was only a store… it would be good to have a little _more_ to work for. _Think of it as an investment, you know?_

Absently, as he walked, Jerzy became aware of a sound: a slippery sort of _whoosh_. He paused. Listened.

Nothing. Just his imagination. He resumed his rounds, strolling through the plumbing aisle, past pipes and sealant and a few dusty pumps. _No one's bought them in a while, might have to reduce prices. Perhaps the swimming centre will want one—_

There it was again: _shoop._ The noise, like something wet. He stopped.

…And couldn't hear anything. Only the fifty-hertz hum of the lights and air-conditioners.

"Hmm," Jerzy murmured.

He started walking, and as soon as he'd taken a couple of steps – the noise was back.

He stopped. The noise disappeared.

He walked a couple of metres. It came back. _What in God's name?_ It sounded like – like when you were dragging something heavy through damp grass, that icky moist slither. Perhaps it was the air-conditioner playing up again; every year or two it'd spring a leak, flooding part of the roof with coolant. Always a fun problem to deal with.

 _Splat._ A drop of liquid hit the floor in front of him.

 _Splat. Splat. Splat._ A little pool.

"Stupid machine." Jerzy swore, then looked up at the ceiling. Directly above was one of the air-con vents – a thin grate with darkness on the other side. As he watched, another drop fell from the roof.

As he watched, something moved inside the vent.

Jerzy froze. Was he seeing things? No, there _had_ been something. A slight twitch.

He stared into the grating. It was a metre higher and he could barely see inside; no light, apart from whatever was reflected from the floor. The ducts themselves were quite large, criss-crossing the crawlspace in the building's roof. A rat, maybe? Whatever it was, it hadn't run off. _A problem for another day, I think._

_Splat. Splat._

Very slowly, holding his breath, he started to move away.

Another flicker inside the vent. Like… skin, catching the light.

"Time to go home," he said aloud. With careful resolve, he looked away from the opening, then started walking down the aisle. He tried not to imagine someone following him, resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. You'd think that the bright lights, the familiar surroundings would help, but somehow that made it even more frightening. _What happens when the monster doesn't go away after you switch on the lights?_

Once more, the slithering noise had returned. It wasn't getting any closer or farther, he noticed: always the same volume, a couple of metres behind. Then there was a muffled metallic _clang_ from the vents. He twitched.

 _It's following me,_ he realised. _The bastard's following me._ Unconsciously, he began walking a little faster, down the aisle, slipping between trays of fasteners, rounding the corner at the end. The store looked fine, as far as he could tell – that was his cue to leave _._ Despite himself, Jerzy was frightened. _Frightened of WHAT, though? It's only an animal. Nothing to worry about._ He finally surrendered to the urge to check behind him, saw nothing but the deserted, shadowless aisle.

Another crash from the vents.

He started to jog. The slithering sped up.

Jerzy reached the front of the store and made a beeline for the entrance, ducking under dangling '50% off!' banners. Here, finally, were the wide glass doors, beyond them the parking lot, his car waiting in its reserved spot under the pine tree. Breathing quickly, he grabbed the handle and pushed—

 _CLUNK!_ The doors rattled.

Of course, he'd locked them. He'd bloody locked them two minutes ago and in his anxiousness he'd forgotten. _Get a hold of yourself, man_. _Keys. Where are the keys?_ … _Pocket! They're still in your pocket_. He went for his shirt pocket, realised they weren't there, then felt round the back of his jeans. A familiar jingle. And—

Another hand seized his wrist.

He froze.

It was like his veins were suddenly filled with ice. _There's someone here, there's someone else in the store –_ but that was impossible. The hand felt small. Soft, like a child's hand.

Very deliberately, Jerzy didn't turn around, because… that would make it real. Instead, slowly, he fished the keys from his pocket, unseen fingers still locked round his wrist. He moved his arm forward and tried to find the lock, staring straight ahead into the shadowy parking lot. His heart raced. The hand tugged at his arm, but he resisted. Half a whimper died in his throat.

 _Click_! Into the keyhole. The hand pulled again, much harder this time, and before Jerzy realised is he was looking down—

It was a little girl's hand. Soft and warm, tiny fingers holding his own.

For a brief moment, he thought of his imaginary future daughter, sitting on his knee by the fire in the winter. The hand was attached to an arm, and he followed it with his eyes, past his leg, turning around. It was a very _long_ arm.

Instead of racing, his heart… stopped.

Blood exploded against the glass.

* * *

Sunday morning. Usually Alice would've spent it lazing around at home, but instead, here she was, knocking on a battered wooden door on the other side of town. Her bike was parked under a tree by the footpath and it'd been a solid twenty-minute ride to her destination: a tired old house with a steep roof, painted in pale blue-grey. The windows were covered in plastic sheeting, the sandy front yard dotted with piles of junk. Rolled-up carpets leaned against a rusting AMC Gremlin in the driveway.

_Knock knock knock._

She stepped back, slowing her breathing. It wouldn't be good to show up all red and flustered. No, she had to be calm. Calm and firm. _Don't let him bully you. And don't forget, you were friends once—_

The door was wrenched open, revealing a tall, blonde-haired boy inside. "…Alice?" Todd stared at her for a second in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I tried to call you yesterday," she replied. "I left my bag in your room a while ago. I wanted to come and pick it up."

"Oh." He stood there for a moment, mouth half-open. He was wearing a thin singlet and shorts, arms hanging by his sides, and Alice could remember why she'd noticed him in the first place. They were nice arms. A nice face, too. _Objectively._

_You can be pretty shallow, huh._

Eventually, Todd seemed to reach a decision. He stepped aside. "Wanna come in?"

"Yeah. Sure."

She followed him into the hallway. Inside it was a similar story – everything had a weary, humble appearance, from the wallpaper with its tacky green pattern to the plain, scuffed wooden furniture. The house wasn't dirty; in fact, every surface was impeccably clean. It was simply… old. Old, and cluttered, as if its occupants couldn't afford to throw things away.

Todd led her to the kitchen, offered her a chair at the dinner table. "Wait here." He disappeared into another room.

Alice sat cautiously. The house was quiet, fridge humming, faint smell of sawdust in the air. A couple of Todd's basketball uniforms lay folded on the table, a jug of water beside them. Somebody was mid-way through repairs; white cables dangled from the ceiling, leading from a light bulb over her head to a spot of bare wood in the corner—

Someone was sleeping there in a hammock by the window. Alice blinked. It was a young man, maybe twenty years old, thin stream of drool trickling from his lips onto the carpet.

"You remember Chip?" Todd asked suddenly.

She whirled around. "Your brother, right? I… don't think I ever met him."

"Probably a good thing. He didn't come out right."

"What?"

"He didn't come out right. He's retarded."

"Oh." _Nice way of putting it._ "You never told me."

"Can't imagine why." Todd sighed, and dropped her satchel on the table – dirty pink, with a Disney logo on the strap. "Here's your bag. But I'm guessing that's not the only reason you came."

"No. Can we… talk?" She forced herself to look at his face. Tried to imagine him and Joe, facing off in the locker room. Tried to remember what it'd felt like, holding his hand in hers.

Something flickered in his eyes; annoyance, perhaps. Nevertheless, he sat down at the table. "What did you wanna talk about?"

"Us."

" _Us_?" he asked incredulously. "Kinda late, isn't it?"

 _Better late than never._ "I wanted to say… I'm sorry."

"Really."

"Yeah. Sorry for abandoning you. It was a shitty thing to do."

Todd stared at her. "You're right. It was."

She stared back. "But there _was_ a good reason."

"Yeah, well, in my opinion Joe Lamb isn't a good reason."

"That's not it. You know all the crazy stuff which went down at the start of the holidays? I was _part_ of that. I got swept up in this huge, insane… mess, and you weren't. Which was a good thing, trust me. And later, I – I couldn't talk about it. Things changed. A lot."

"That's awfully unspecific," Todd replied.

"I know, and I'm sorry for that too. It's difficult to explain. It's really, really difficult."

"Which makes ME feel so much better."

Alice shook her head. "Todd, please. You don't understand—"

"No, _you_ don't understand," he shot back, suddenly angry. "I thought we _had_ something, Alice. I liked you. I thought you liked _me_. I mean, you were telling people I was your boyfriend, right? Then you just – drop off the Earth for three months, no visits, no phone calls, not even a note and suddenly you show up at school with Joe? It's like you had no idea how I felt. Like you didn't care."

There was a pause. Alice's eyes flicked away. _The worst thing is, I kind of didn't care. Not after I met the others._

The back door swung open and a woman came inside, wiping her shoes on the mat. She was in her late thirties but was already developing wrinkles, which she'd attempted to offset with too much makeup and a bouncy blonde hairdo. She noticed Alice at the table and her eyes immediately narrowed.

Then she looked at Todd. "Did you pick up any soda from the store?"

"I forgot," he replied, with a hint of defiance.

"Yeah? Well I forgot to make ya dinner – how'd you like that?" She strode into the kitchen. "You helping with his schoolwork again?"

Alice took a moment to realise Todd's mother was talking to her. "No, Mrs Ingram."

"Well, you'd better start, 'cause he's hanging on for dear life."

"BS," retorted Todd. "I get good grades."

"Then I'm gonna blow your mind honey, since D's are NOT good. D's are bad."

"I got _one_ D, okay? I told you, my history teacher was a pervert! I wasn't about to go to his house after school to get 'tutored'."

Her eyes flashed. " _Can_ it, Todd! You're gonna wake up Chip."

"At least I know how to read," he muttered darkly.

"…What was that?" she asked, full of menace.

"Nothing."

"Then shut up." Mrs Ingram swept out of the room, down the hall to the laundry. Todd clenched his jaw, leaning back in his chair. Alice sat perfectly straight, even more on-edge than she had been. _You can kinda see where he gets it._

Still, it was time to sort things out. It'd dragged on long enough. The problem was, the whole stupid feud seemed so insignificant compared to all the other problems they were facing – aliens, the air force, meteors exploding out of the sky – but of course, Todd didn't know that. It wasn't insignificant; not for him. Alice realised that she actually _meant_ something to him, and wasn't sure how that made her feel.

"You were the only person who made it worth it, you know," he said quietly.

"What?"

"All this… bullshit. You made it bearable." He gestured around him.

"I… really?" She trailed off.

"I mean, I don't even _like_ basketball, but hey, if I'm good, I could get a scholarship and go to college and make some actual money for my mom and step-dad to spend. So, I play basketball. It's fuckin' amazing." He sighed, staring out the window. "Not. You're great, Alice. You're really great. Or… you were."

_I didn't know._

"And my parents hate _everybody_. They hate Ben, they hate Matt, they can't stand all my other friends. The only person who they like is you."

"But I've only met them, like, twice."

"Yeah, well. I used to talk a lot. And honestly, Ben and Matt are idiots, like the rest of this stupid town. I mean, I hate most of my friends. I actually _hate_ them. I hate this school. My parents are the worst. My entire life is just one big boring lie—"

"Todd, I get it, but that's no excuse to be a dickhead."

He blinked. "Huh?"

"I'm sorry that you're stuck here. I'm sorry about your family, and your friends, and I'm sorry for not giving you an explanation three months ago. But seriously, you have to stop."

"Stop _what_?"

"Being a dick," she repeated. "That's not why I liked you."

There was silence, for a moment. Todd gaped at her.

"Look," Alice said seriously. "I used to hate my dad. I've hung out with crappy friends. I _tried_ being angry and frustrated at the world the whole time because I thought it would somehow mean something, or make a difference. But guess what? It doesn't. Being nice to people does."

"I AM nice—"

"Really? Also, I'd appreciate it if you didn't beat up Joe anymore. It's not his fault."

His face was like a mask, but she could see the wheels turning underneath. Suddenly, a previously-forgotten memory floated to the surface: one afternoon, her dad had been drunk, and she'd accidentally broken one of his bottles, and he'd gotten angry. But Todd had protected her. He'd been there, and he'd stood between her and her father in his (apparently) hated basketball jersey, and in that moment he'd seemed like the bravest person in the world.

But it was only one moment. _We were friends 'cause we were supposed to be. You were the jock, I was the – well, not a cheerleader, but close enough – and that whole first boyfriend-girlfriend idea was pretty popular in ninth grade._

"Okay."

"What?"

"I said _okay._ " Todd shrugged dismissively.

And that was that. He escorted her to the front door, not saying another word.

"We'll talk later?" Alice asked quietly.

"Sure… here's your bag."

"Oh. Thanks." She slipped it over her shoulder. "I mean it, when it isn't Joe's fault." _It's mine._ "Don't take it out on him. Or anybody else."

"Whatever." Todd turned, and went back inside.

Alice watched him for a moment, then trudged to her bicycle. She climbed onto the pedals, kicked the stand, wiped a couple of ants off the handlebars. Then she felt a shiver on the back of her neck and took one last glance over her shoulder.

Todd was standing there, alone on the porch. Alone, in front of his old, faded house. There was pain on his face, but it was the good kind of pain – the kind that meant that you might get better, if things went right.

Alice waved, and rode into the distance.

* * *

Charles clutched the phone as if his life depended on it, fingers white and shivering. _Come on, pick up pick up PICK UP – or don't, then I can finally stop WORRYING._ He waited in the kitchen with baited breath, his brothers in the midst of an epic swordfight on the sofa. _How can one stupid phone call be so nerve-wracking? This morning it was easy. 'Oh, I'll call and ask if she's free.' No big deal._ Benji Kaznyk managed a surprisingly decent somersault off the couch, plastic sword in hand, and Charles was preparing to yell at them when someone answered.

" _Hello, this is Rachel Yukimura speaking—"_

"CAN IT, BOTH OF YOU! Before mom comes home."

"Charles, you're not supposed to be on the phone!" Benji retorted.

"Shut up!"

" _…is this Charles?"_

"Oh yeah, sorry. I was, uh, talking to somebody else. Good morning."

There was the pause of someone checking their watch. " _It's the afternoon._ "

"Oh. Sorry."

" _You don't have to apologise for getting the time wrong."_

"Oh. Uh—" _Don't say it!_ "—sorry. Sorry." He facepalmed. "Sorry."

_"…Charles?"_

"Yeah?"

_"Are you alright? It sounded like something fell."_

"Oh, that was just, um, me. Hitting myself."

" _Uh-huh. You probably shouldn't."_ He imagined her frowning, utterly confused. _This could actually be the worst conversation in history_ , he thought miserably _._ Those literal _minutes_ he'd spent thinking of a classy intro before dialling, all for nothing. For nothing!

"So… you're probably wondering why I'm calling," Charles began, attempting to salvage the situation.

No reply.

"Rachel, you there?"

_"Yep. I thought you were going to explain?"_

"Oh, yeah, I – how are you, by the way?"

" _I'm good."_

"Good, good." He scrunched his eyes shut and took a quiet gulp of air. "Um, I was gonna ask. Maybe, umm… you'd like to hang out? Sometime?"

" _Hang out? You mean with everyone?"_

"No, no… just me and you."

 _There, I said it. I said it I said it I said it. Can't go back._ He stood in the kitchen, cheeks suddenly hot and flushed – and listened to silence on the other end. The seconds stretched, long and uncomfortably longer. _Did you blow it? You idiot, you'd better not have blown that chance._

"Hello? Rachel?"

* * *

" _Hello? Rachel?"_

She blinked. "Yes?"

" _So… do you wanna hang out?"_

"Uh. Yeah, sure." Once she got over the surprise it didn't need much thought. "It's just that – nobody's properly asked me that before."

" _Oh. Really?"_

"To spend time with them individually, I mean."

" _You didn't have friends back in Florida?"_

"I did, sort of. But… it was different. I was always the person who tagged along." _You know, the one whom everybody invites out of obligation._

Rachel glanced around the living room. Her parents were outside, planting some shrubs in the garden; she could see her dad's hat through the window. Their house was starting to become familiar in that subtle, homey way, and she suddenly realised she wouldn't mind spending a year or three in Lillian.

 _It's infinitely better than the last town, anyway. Stacey, Toby, the rest of those kids… they never liked me. I tried fitting in, but they saw right through the act._ That was an interesting aspect of being quiet-slash-inconspicuous: people didn't notice you, so you could eavesdrop on the conversations occurring behind your back (always great for self-esteem). _Though after they locked me in that cupboard at Stacey's birthday party, it was fairly obvious they thought I was weird._ _Probably for the best._

Charles' voice cut through the memory. " _Man, that sucks. Sorry._ "

"Stop saying sorry. It's not your fault."

" _Oh, whoops. Sorry!_ "

"…Are you doing that on purpose?"

" _God, I hope so."_ She heard him mutter to himself. _"Unfortunately, I'm still grounded after that whole meteorite incident—"_

"Mmm, I know the one."

_"—yeah, I thought you'd be familiar with it. I was thinking we could rendezvous after school, perambulate to the arcade or something. It can't be tomorrow, but maybe Tuesday? I can ditch football training so my parents aren't suspicious."_

"Okay. First question: Lillian has an arcade?"

" _Totally, behind the library_."

"Huh. Second question: 'perambulate'?" She raised an eyebrow.

" _Doesn't it mean to walk?_ "

"Well, yes, but I've never heard somebody use it in actual conversation."

" _It's because I'm so sophisticated,"_ Charles said casually.

"Right. Very erudite."

" _That's the one_. _Such a raconteur."_

Rachel paused. "Parsimonious, even."

 _"_ I'd _say philanthropic."_

"Quixotic?"

 _"Capricious!_ "

"…Okay, did you enter the national spelling bee too? Because that word list is burned into my memory."

 _"Maybe,"_ he said guiltily.

"How'd you go? I might've seen you if you reached the elimination stage."

_"Hell no, I never got anywhere NEAR that far. My parents made me enter, I flunked the first round. Efforts vs. reward, totally not worth it."_

"Hmm, you sure? I was two words from winning an Atari."

 _"YOU COULD WIN AN ATARI?! WHY DIDN'T THEY MENTION THAT!"_ She heard him smack something and hoped it wasn't his face again. " _Forget it, all those games are at the arcade anyway. So do you still wanna go?"_

"Sure."

_"Really?"_

"Yes. Really." She considered adding a sarcastic comment, then decided Charles wouldn't be able to deal with it in his current flustered state. _Why's he so nervous, anyway? All we're doing is – oh._

_"Great! They just got some new cabinets in. It'll be fun, trust me."_

"Sounds good—"

_"Wait, is it alright if I say that? The t-word?"_

"Charles, it was only a problem when the sky was literally exploding. It's fine." She swallowed. "And… thanks, for the invitation. Really."

 _"No problem._ " He sounded surprised. _"I'll, uh – I'll see you tomorrow. Then after school on Tuesday."_

"Yes, see you tomorrow."

_"Don't forget."_

"Charles, we're in half the same classes."

" _Oh yeah. Okay, well… bye_."

"Bye. Thank for the call."

There was the traditional awkward moment as they waited for each other to hang up; Rachel finally took the plunge and stepped back, leaning against the wall with a bemused sort of smile. Then she looked at her feet, concealing the slight lump in her throat.

_Thank you._

* * *

Alice stepped off the bus at the outskirts of Cincinnati, glancing at the crude map she'd sketched in her notebook. The house was only a few streets from the bus depot: #8 Beacon Drive.

She started walking. The address hadn't been very hard to find – a few calls to the phone directory, a bit of searching through old paperwork, one three-dollar bus ticket. Part of her wondered why she hadn't done it sooner. The other part knew she hadn't wanted to.

And now, she wasn't sure which part was winning. A lump of dread sat heavily in her stomach, which had obstinately showed up once she'd caught the bus and now refused to piss off. She clenched her fists slightly, forced herself onward along the well-kept footpath.

8 Beacon Drive was… nice. Two storeys, traditional, painted pale green with a blinding white roof. Lots of windows with curtains drawn. There was a large brick area out front, a rectangular yard on the left-hand side with a huge fig tree casting shade over the grass. Pink flowers dotted the area around the front door.

Alice gazed at it for a moment, hoping for a revelation. A hint. Something.

None came. She climbed the steps, paused at the top. _It's bad to think too much, just figure it out as you go. That usually works, right? It has so far._ She thrust her apprehension aside and knocked sharply on the wood. She didn't have to wait for long. Soon Alice heard footsteps in the hallway, saw a blurry shadow through the glass, briefly considered diving behind a hedge and taking the easy way out—

The door opened, revealing a young-ish man in a thin black sweater. He had dark curly hair with sharp eyebrows, a distinctly Italian appearance. His voice, though, was all American. "Hi. Can I help you?"

For a second, she was lost for words. "I… was expecting someone else."

"Who were you expecting?"

"I'm looking for Ellen."

"She's at work. There's a special event on today, finishes at four-thirty."

"Um… where?"

"At the school – Jefferson Elementary." He looked a little more closely. "You're not one of her students, are you?"

"No, no. I'm a… family friend." She shook her head. "I can come back."

"Okay." The man didn't seem to mind either way, and Alice stared at the unfamiliar face. _Who are you? Husband? Boyfriend? 'Acquaintance'? Maybe he's—_

"Are you leaving? 'Cause I have to run." The man glanced behind him.

"Yeah. Yeah." Alice forced a smile and shuffled back, walking down the steps. The door closed behind her.

She kept walking, across the bricks, to the footpath beside the road. Looked both ways, then crossed the street, following the white picket fences and neatly-trimmed hedges. Fifty yards further she found a small park with a picnic bench underneath a tree.

Sighing, she settled down to wait.

* * *

The first Alice saw of her was a tiny figure in the distance; slowly, the figure resolved into a woman walking on the footpath.

Her mom looked the same. _I mean, I_ did _only see her two weeks ago. Feels like longer._ She was wearing jeans and a green collared shirt, hair tied in a loose ponytail, work boots on her feet – as if she was coming from a farm rather than a school.

In one hand was a bag of groceries. Beside her was a small child. As they got closer, Alice saw that it was a boy. Dark hair, perhaps six or seven. Smiling happily. Her mom murmured something and he skipped ahead.

Alice waited by the driveway. Eventually, her mom noticed her. She stopped in her tracks for a second, eyes wide – then recovered, walking faster. Alice glanced away, focusing on the dappled shadows on the bricks, trying to think of what to say. Why she'd actually come. _Should've thought about it sooner. But you never do. Instead, you're here, hoping to fix… whatever this is, without a second thought. You're almost as bad as Cary._

Her mom walked through the gate, and came to a stop before her. The boy stayed back and hid behind her leg, staring curiously. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Ally."

"Hi," she replied simply.

Her mother shook her head in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"I caught the bus. From Lillian." She slipped her hands into her pockets. "I found your house."

" _Did_ you." A hint of prickliness, one that hadn't been there last time. _Well, this is exactly what you did, turning up unexpected. I'm only returning the favour._

"There was a man there," Alice said. "He told me to wait for you."

"Brad," she replied flatly. "Tim, go inside. I'll follow you."

The boy seized the shopping bag, edging away, then darted quickly up the steps. Alice watched him leave, then pinned her mother with an accusing gaze. "Who is he?"

Ellen took a breath. "Your… brother," she said. "Or – half-brother."

 _What?_ Alice's stare didn't waver, even as a dozen emotions battled for supremacy inside her. Soon, anger won. The easy choice. "So you left your child to go and have _more_ children? How the hell is _that_ supposed to work—"

Happy, childish laughter bubbled from the open doorway as someone slipped in the hall. The sound made her pause, softening her words. _It's… it's not the kid's fault. It's not my brother's fault._

 _Doesn't THAT_ _feel weird_. "Sorry," she murmured. "That's…"

"What I deserve," her mother said.

The words burned through seven years of neglect like tinder. Alice froze, memories springing forth unbidden.

_Making a gingerbread house for Christmas, her mom's hands guiding her own. Red, white and green icing dripping over the benchtop. The amazing, all-encompassing smell of it, baking in the oven. The soft feel of the dough between their fingers._

_Sitting on the front porch late at night, alone. Wondering. Imagining what might've been. No more crying, because she had no tears left. A river of 'em, all dried up._

_The shouting, the breaking plates, the stink of alcohol. Running into the bathroom in blind panic, door bursting open as he kicked the lock with brutish strength, flinching and hiding in the dark as she waited for his hand to—_

She blinked, biting her lip. _Yes, mom. It's what you deserve. But it still doesn't HELP. I want to know_ why _it had to be like this. Why we couldn't be normal. Why it had to be hard. Why._

"They're the same flowers we have at our house in Lillian," Alice said, pointing at the bright pink blooms in the garden. "Aren't they?"

"Hydrangeas. They'll take all your water, but they're worth it." A faint smile. "I'm surprised your dad has kept them."

"He… likes them, I think." She paused. "So, should I be bracing to meet Tim's father?"

"No. He left before the baby was born."

"Then who is—"

"It's a long story," her mom said tiredly.

 _I guess a lot can happen in seven years._ "And how old's Tim, he's… five? Six?"

"Seven," she said.

For some reason, the number made Alice twitch. Then sudden realisation flooded though her. _So THAT'S why. That's why she disappeared. All these years and I never even thought – I never thought it could be so simple. But I guess it makes sense, in a stupid messed-up way._ She kicked her sneakers against a brick in the driveway. Her arms were folded tightly, like a shield.

"Why didn't you just… tell us you were pregnant?"

"I couldn't," Ellen said, looking away.

Alice frowned. "But you could just – _vanish_?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Well, how about you try."

"I guess I just wasn't very good at being married." She smiled sadly.

"You mean you weren't very good at being married to dad," Alice retorted. "I can understand that. I know he was difficult sometimes."

"No. I wasn't good at being married to anyone."

"I don't get it." It felt like she was having trouble focusing; her mom's face swam in and out of clarity, alternately close and distant.

Ellen sighed, then touched her daughter's shoulder. "Let's go inside."

* * *

The sat across the table from each other, two strangers, like she'd done with Todd earlier that morning. _Been an interesting day, huh._ This time, though, their surroundings were much more elegant.

"Why'd you come?" Alice asked. "To our house, a few weeks ago."

"Well, why did you come here?"

"Because – because I felt I had to." _Otherwise it was gonna eat away at me for the rest of my life._

"Exactly," her mom replied. She closed her eyes. "Tim turned seven, and I thought… that's the same age as you were, when I left. It felt right to try and see you. I'm sorry."

"And you just _couldn't_ have done it earlier."

"Oh, it was hard, in the beginning. I missed you, for the first few years, I missed you _terribly_. But then – then it became easier. It was easier to ignore, the longer I left it. You know how it is. And I had other things to focus on."

 _Other things_. Her mom had made her a cup of tea, which sat steaming on the table in front of her. She hadn't realised how thirsty she was. "What was on today at the school?"

"Craft fair. All the classes set up their own stall, and we get external people attending too – I'm sure you had similar events in Lillian."

"Sure. How is… Tim?"

As she said the name, she heard the pitter-patter of footsteps scampering down the hall. _Well,_ someone's _been eavesdropping. He's kinda like me, that way. 'Tim'._ The name was an unfamiliar echo on her lips. _My half-brother._

_Nope, still feels weird._

"Tim's good. He's quite smart. Likes reading comic books – his father actually does drawings for them, the Spider-Man ones. Crazy about soccer."

"Not football?"

"Nope. Soccer." Ellen smiled.

"Did dad know? My dad?"

"Not about Tim's father, no."

"What do you mean, 'not about Tim's father.'"

Her mom looked at her, head tiled, unwilling to actually say the words. Alice swallowed.

"There were others," Alice said, the ground falling away beneath her.

"Yes. There were others."

"How did I not know about this? Dad never said a word."

"He was strangely loyal like that," her mom answered. "He'd forgive me, then I'd – go out, and do it all over again. Until it ruined us."

Alice couldn't understand how she sounded so _calm_ , how she could talk about it like it was nothing special. She looked away, frowning. "I… I always thought that you left because of _him_. Because he was too impossible to live with."

Ellen shook her head slightly. "No. I mean; he definitely wasn't easy. It was a circus at times, you know that."

"Yeah." A shared, grim smile.

"But I broke it apart. I got pregnant, and – I couldn't face up. To what I'd done." She gazed at Alice, filled with regret. "So don't blame him. Not completely."

"Blame him?" The anger returned. "No, I don't. Not anymore."

"Good."

" _He_ stayed. You're the one who let me down. Right when I needed you the most, by the way."

"What's that mean?"

"He got sick. Or – he got _worse_." She heard her voice quiver, made herself stare at the woman sitting opposite her. "Kept drinking. The week after you left, then the month and the year after that. And then one day he was so bad the neighbours had to carry me to the ER, and then I'm in a foster home, and then he's in a jail cell with just him and a mattress and a cage on the window."

Ellen covered her mouth. "Oh my god."

"That was the breaking point. It got better after that. But all I _wanted_ was my mom, and you were NOT there. You were nowhere," she said accusingly. "How do you not call? How do you not send a single freaking Christmas card?"

Silence, for a moment. Alice forced herself to relax as her mom sighed, waiting for the excuse.

"I always meant to get in touch," she said eventually, "but I couldn't say what I done. I'd hurt so many people already. I just had to stop. I had to stop, and do one _right_ thing: focus on Tim. And so I did." She looked down. It didn't sound like an excuse; and it wasn't, not really. "This isn't going to be easily fixed, I know that. But I want _you_ to know that I'm here now. I'm here, and maybe… we're ready to be a family again. Or half of one. Do you – do you feel the same way?"

Alice sat, her eyes starting to sting. She blinked it away. _Don't. Not in front of her._ "Maybe," she murmured. _There's so many new things to get used to. So much to understand, and remember, and move on from, and forgive._

_But maybe I'm ready to try. One last time._

* * *

Taylor had been driving for twenty minutes before she saw the deer. It crept up on her without warning; one second the road was clear, the next a great big animal was blocking her way, lying right in the middle of the highway. She stamped on her brakes and the pickup shuddered to a stop, ten metres from the obstruction.

Taylor sat, heart racing, hands gripping the wheel. The deer wasn't budging. It lay in the glare of the truck's headlights, head bowed, legs folded beneath it. A statue.

 _Is it… dead?_ Her dog, Smurf – a big bull mastiff – sat in the passenger's seat beside her. Taylor glanced at him, rubbed his head. He drooled happily. "What do you think, dude? What happened to it?"

Smurf didn't reply.

"We'd better move it, huh. So somebody else doesn't crash into it."

Smurf seemed to agree – or perhaps he just wanted more pats. Either way, Taylor cautiously parked her pickup on the verge, out of harm's way, then switched on the hazard lights. They blinked eerie orange in the darkness. She grabbed a torch plus some spare batteries and climbed out of the truck. Smurf followed, bounding onto the asphalt with one huge leap.

Taylor, last name Lecuona, had recently turned twenty-two, with a distinctly Hispanic complexion and an athletic build from years of morning runs. Her short brown hair – _too short_ , her mother insisted, _you look like a boy_ – framed a sharp, pixie-ish face, one that could alternate between beaming smiles and grim frowns in an instant (and frequently did).

Taylor glanced at the forest, a frown on full display. She'd stopped at a nondescript curve in the highway, ten miles from Lillian. The road led north ahead of her towards Michigan and the Great Lakes, winding through flat woodlands and tiny country towns as it went. The trees began a couple of metres from the asphalt, thick and shadowy, sloping gently uphill. You always had to be careful at night, with animals trying to cross the road. She switched on her flashlight, slipping the batteries into her pocket.

"Time to check on this deer," she said aloud. With Smurf around, it wasn't _quite_ talking to herself.

She walked cautiously towards the animal. It still hadn't moved, simply reclining on the road. Even though its eyes were open, she couldn't hear any breathing. "Doesn't look like anybody hit it… there's no blood. What do you think, Smurf?"

The dog half-barked, half-groaned. _Aroooooo… Ruff!_

"What's _that_ supposed to mean." Taylor moved forwards. The truck's headlights shone harsly behind her.

Evidently the deer wasn't conscious, because there wasn't so much as a flicker as she knelt next to its head. Gently, she laid a hand on its side. Its fur was soft. Warm. The animal was male, quite muscular, a proud set of antlers sprouting behind its ears. There was a faint pattern of spots on its back. She leaned closer. Its eyes were blank, midnight black; a faint trickle of blood leaked from its nose, but that was it. No signs of life, but – no signs of death, either, like it was asleep. You'd expect to see some injuries if a bear or a hunter had tagged it. _Hasn't been dead for long. But… what killed it?_

Smurf tilted his head, sniffing the prone animal curiously. He walked around it, huge paws silent on the bitumen. Apparently he couldn't find anything too, and sat back on his haunches.

"Maybe it didn't want us to run away, huh, Smurf… like it's a sign, or something. To stop us."

The dog looked at her, a little sadly.

"Mom and dad are probably wondering where we are. Do you miss 'em?"

 _Ruff!_ he barked.

"You would, wouldn't you." Taylor shook her head, clenching her jaw. "But we can't go back. Maybe in a little while. Once it's calmer." There wasn't time to feel sorry for herself. "Now, how are we gonna move this beast?" She stood, gazing at the deer. It looked heavy. Sighing, she grabbed its antlers, gave them an exploratory tug.

Something scraped.

 _Hm. That was easy. Maybe I'm stronger than I thought._ She braced herself, gripped the antlers and gave the corpse an almighty _heave_ —

_RRrrrrip!_

The entire head tore free in her hands – flesh ripping round its neck, detaching clean off the body.

Taylor froze in shock. Gloopy black blood flowed from the wound, rotting strands of meat dangling in the night air. She held the head for a second, the deer staring emptily into her soul – then, with a scream, she threw it across the road, trailing blood all the while. It thumped sickeningly into the ground, antlers clattering. Smurf gave chase on instinct and she called him back.

"No! Don't."

Shuddering, Taylor forced herself to look at the headless corpse. There was now an enormous hole in its neck, blood pooling on the road. It smelled… off.

"That's not supposed to happen. Muscles don't just _tear_ like that," she murmured. Her stomach heaved. "It was probably sick. Sick, with – a virus or something." That sounded semi-reasonable so she clung to the thought, bending over. She wasn't _quite_ at vomiting point, not yet. "That's not supposed to happen," she said again.

Smurf whined.

"Exactly. What the _hell_."

When she looked up again, the deer head was gone.

Taylor frowned. Next to it where it'd been, there was an odd, wet trail, leading into the forest. _Was that there before?_ It was similar to a snail's trail but a foot wide, made of some sticky, glittering residue – as if something had, impossibly quickly, slithered out and snatched the head for itself. She followed its path with her eyes to where it disappeared between the trees. It was difficult to see much outside the glow of the truck's headlights and she swept her torch across the leaves, more curious than afraid.

The light glinted off something. Skin.

It was a _tentacle_ , she realised. Or perhaps a snake, but not your garden-variety snake – more like an enormous fat boa constrictor. The tip of… whatever it was poked from the forest, muscular, thick as your leg, glistening with that same sticky wetness. It lay flat in the dirt, narrowing to a smooth tip, the rest of it hidden by the undergrowth.

She was still a safe distance away; besides, the car was right there. Taylor crept forwards. _Mom always said you had more courage than sense—_

WHOOSH!The tentacle retreated in a lightning blur, vanishing into the shadows. She twitched in surprise—

_RUFF! RUFF RUFF RUFF!_

—and suddenly Smurf barrelled past her, chasing the mysterious snake with murder in his eyes.

"Hey! Smurf, STAY! STAY!"

Her words fell upon deaf ears. The dog charged into the forest and disappeared, barking madly. _Ruff! Ruff ruff!_

"Smurf! Come BACK here!"

The barking grew softer, more distant, accompanied by the sound of his paws crashing through the brush.

_Ruff!_

"Shit," Taylor swore. "Shit shit _shit_." She glanced at her car, key still in the ignition, then at the woody hillside before her. The bloody deer lay by her feet. "Smurf, you idiot, I do _not_ want to… oh, for Christ's sake."

Clutching her torch, shaking her head, Taylor jogged into the forest after her fleeing dog. The mastiff could be remarkably bloody-minded when he detected a chase; there was no telling when he'd lose interest. Deliberately, she pushed the strange creature to the back of her mind. _It's probably far away by now. I'm sure Smurf scared it off._

Even so, she couldn't help feeling on edge. The forest was dense and close all around her, branches and sticks scraping against her jeans, the occasional nasty spiderweb wrapping itself round her face. Her flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating pale trunks and dark green leaves. She thought she'd gone maybe a hundred yards when – _Ruff!_ – she heard him bark. _I should've grabbed some treats from the car._

"Smurf! Good boy, come on!" Her voice sounded strange. She looked over her shoulder, saw the gleam from her headlights in the distance – that was good – and peered into the shadows.

Suddenly, her torch went out. The immediate blackness was startling. Taylor whacked the casing a few times and a couple of seconds later, the beam returned.

"Stupid thing. Smurf! Where are you!?"

 _Ruff! Ruff ruff!_ He sounded strangely excited.

"Smurf, come HERE!" Taylor groaned, listening, trying to pinpoint the noise. It was coming from uphill, not too far. She jumped over a dead set of branches—

Again, the flashlight blinked off. She smacked it, shook it, heard it rattle. No response. "Ah, crap. Knew I should've bought a new one." She crouched, boots crunching on a pile of leaves. _Or maybe it's the batteries?_

 _Ruff! RUFF!_ The barking was closer.

And then it was no longer barking. It was _yelping._ _Arf! Arf arf arf!_

"…Smurf?"

 _Arf arf arf! ARF!_ The sound of a dog in pain.

"Smurf, where are you?!"

She stood up, trying desperately to see but her eyes weren't adjusted to the light. Smurf whined, a long, squealing cry which she hadn't heard since he was a puppy. He was _frantic_ , the bravery gone and replaced by a terrified need to escape. It made her heart ache.

"Smurf!"

 _Arf! Arf!_ He yelped again, loud and piercing, her boy lost in the dark. _Arf! Arf—_

A loud crack in the distance.

Then, silence.

Taylor listened. The flashlight still wasn't working. "Smurf?"

Suddenly, she wished she'd brought a gun. She had a hunting rifle which she'd stolen from her dad, but it was currently sitting uselessly in the tray of her pickup. Now, here she was, crouching in the forest with absolutely nothing to defend herself with. "Batteries. Change the batteries." Perhaps that was the problem. She reached into her pocket, found a couple of AAs, promptly dropped them in the dirt. All she could think about was what'd happened to her dog. "Shit."

She heard another crack – a twig breaking. Taylor whirled around.

Of course, it was nothing. She fished for the batteries, thankfully found them, clicked open the casing of the torch.

 _Crack._ Closer. Something coming. Her mind immediately flashed to the strange tentacle by the road, the blood-slicked deer's head in her hands. "Shit shit shit shit shit." She cursed, popped out the old AAs, felt for whichever end had the knob and tried to slide the new ones in.

 _Crack. Crack-snap-crack-snap!_ The thing was running towards her, charging through the brush. Her fingers were numb and clumsy. One battery, then two, the noises rushing closer, fumbling the switch and – click!

Light flooded into the forest, startlingly bright just as a huge black shape leapt at her chest. Taylor screamed— but the shape had soft paws and a giant, slobbery tongue. "Smurf! Oh my god, what happened to you?"

_Ruff!_

The dog pawed at her, crashing to the ground. A huge red mark was etched down his side: not a graze, more like the skin had been burned. She patted his head, scratched behind his ears, chuckling with nervous relief.

"You scared me, dude." Taylor swallowed, wiping her sweat with her shirt. "Come on. Let's get the _fuck_ out of here."

They started downhill, the woods creaking secretively around them. Smurf walked beside her, tail between his legs. Another branch snapped, almost stealthily but she ignored it, focused on getting back to the road. Retracing their steps.

"What happened?" she asked again. "Creepy things in these woods, huh?"

The dog only whined in response.

"There's probably all _sorts_ of monsters in here. A murderer or two. That's what we believed as children, anyway – like the Kingfield ghost, remember him? That boy who disappeared ten years ago." She shook her head solemnly. "The big kids used to say that he still haunts these woods. Every now and then, when someone wanders after dark, he comes flapping out of the trees, face all putrid and covered in—"

Smurf whined again, and Taylor realised she was scaring herself. That didn't occur often, but… the trees were dark, bulky presences all around them, swaying slowly in the breeze, rubbing together, creaking in their joints. The sound was eerie. _Save the freaky stories for when you're in the car._

Another branch snapped to their left. Again, Taylor wished she'd brought the gun. Part of regretted choosing this particular night to run away.

Another branch snapped.

Smurf cowered, pressing against her leg.

"Don't be a wimp," Taylor said. "Come on."

They started to walk again, feet swishing through the pine needles. Taylor told herself she didn't hear any branches; didn't hear anything except them and the wind. Blood thudded in her temples. _Count steps,_ she told herself. _We'll be at the road in another fifty yards. In a minute we'll see my car and we'll feel completely stupid, but it'll be_ good _to feel stupid._ "Won't it, Smurf. One. Two. Three…"

And then, she saw it: a set of eyes, blinking in the dark.

Then they were gone. Terror leapt into her chest – previously suppressed, now flaring to life. She couldn't hold it in any longer. Her legs buzzed with electricity, her heart fluttering and she knew she would've run if not for the dog by her side. She peered into the woods, afraid of what she might find, and saw only blackness. _It's gone now, but… eyes. I saw eyes._

"Four. Five. Six. Seven." She felt Smurf's fur, scratchy and warm, kept walking. Her knees were trembling. She hated them for it. The dog was crowding against her, almost forcing her aside, moaning softly. _It's watching us_ , he seemed to be saying. _Can't you feel it?_

Once more, Taylor stopped. Dread filled her mind like cold, immovable iron. And in that strange, prickling way, she _did_ feel something, and somehow knew they were no longer alone. A great hush had fallen over the woods; but it was a sinister hush. An evil hush. Shadows, urged by the moonlight, twisted languorously around them.

The eyes were back: bright, low to the ground, glittering at the edge of the torchlight. She caught a glimpse of scaly skin. Sharp, jerky movements. One crept forwards, merged with the forest.

There were dozens of eyes, all around them. A pack.

_We're being hunted._

Taylor's fists were clenched tight as wire. Smurf trembled beside her in a paralysis of fear. His eyes stared into the woods, and then began to widen.

"Smurf?"

A branch snapped.

Taylor turned, and looked where the dog was looking.

The darkness enfolded them.

* * *

"Can anybody give me a main theme of To Kill a Mockingbird?" Their English teacher gazed around the room, leaving waves of Monday-morning nervousness in her wake. "Anybody? It isn't difficult. Come on, we're almost done."

A girl raised her hand politely. "Courage," she suggested.

"Courage. Very good. Courage takes many different forms throughout the novel. For example, Atticus teaches Jem a significant lesson about bravery when…"

Near the back of the room, Cary rolled his eyes, glancing at the clock on the wall for the umpteenth time. Recess was at 10:30 and the minute-hand had been sitting stubbornly on 10:29 for what _felt_ like half an hour. He counted down the seconds. _Come on, come on, come on…_

"Cary?" the teacher asked.

He twitched. "What?"

"'Yes, Mrs McKenny,'" she said patiently. "Not 'what'. Could you tell me a theme present in the story?"

"Uh, class. Like poor people vs. rich people."

"Very good." She looked pleasantly surprised. "Apart from race, class is actually treated much more subtly by Ms. Lee. There are several instances where—"

 _BRIINNGGG!_ There was the bell. Cary swept up his books and leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair, bursting out the door before their teacher could say another word.

* * *

"What the _hell_ happened back there?" Charles hissed. They were gathered around one of the flimsy cafeteria benches, hunched over like grandpas at a poker table.

"What happened?" Martin glared at him. "What HAPPENED is that we summoned a bunch of space rocks and destroyed a sizeable portion of Ohio."

"That's not important," Alice interrupted.

"Not important? It's super imp—"

"No. The essential thing, right now, is for us to sit down together and work out _why_. But we can't, because SOME people got grounded."

"Hey!"

"Hey hey hey—"

"Not our fault," Preston protested.

Joe shrugged. "Either way, we've got fifteen minutes for recess. So let's start."

"Okay." Charles nodded gratefully. "Question one: meteorites. What were they, actually?"

"I dunno. I saw this weird bony thing when we were running away," Cary said. "Like a big egg, or something."

"Yeah, I…" Rachel frowned. "I think I might've seen it too. I can't quite remember. It's… honestly, it's a blur."

"Totally. I wish we'd gotten a closer look, but we _were_ kinda busy," Alice said.

"On the way back down, we didn't see anything weird, though?" Joe said.

"Maybe they… moved?"

"The eggs? How?"

"God knows," Charles muttered. "But I was thinking – remember that dream we all had a month or two ago? The one with the black pods falling from the sky? I think… I think that just happened for real."

"Huh," Martin murmured. In the excitement they'd nearly forgotten. "Yeah, we discussed it on the water tower. There were those pods, and the fires, plus loads of creepy eyes. And those words – 'it's coming.'"

"That _does_ match the evidence thus far," Preston replied. "Perhaps the rest is coming true as well? I wasn't really intending to pick Nostradamus as a career choice."

"Nostra-what?" Cary asked.

"Nostradamus. He was a French guy who lived in the 1500s—"

"Great, so that's more information we should remember. Still, it was a dream. Do we know anything concrete?" Alice asked. "'Cause until we actually see an egg, or an alien or whatever, we can't do much. It's just guesswork."

Rachel was still wrapping her mind around what the group had told her, unused to hearing 'alien' in serious conversation. That was understandable. _But it would've been too difficult to fake EVERY detail of their story… and the odds of all six of them being insane are fairly slim. Doesn't make this any less strange, though._ "I watched the news last night," she volunteered. "The meteorites didn't only hit us – there were ten or twelve places, all around the world. Japan was one of them. Scientists were saying it was an undetected debris cloud, a patch of asteroids in space which the Earth randomly passed through."

"Sounds fishy," Cary said. "Asteroids don't teleport."

"Well, how else are they supposed to explain it?" Martin retorted. "Aliens? That'd be stupid. No one'd believe _that._ "

"So it occurred in other countries, too?" Joe asked. "That sounds bad."

"Is it? We've still got no idea what really took place, or what damage there was."

"Yeah, but there's a pretty clear trend of bad stuff happening to us whenever aliens are involved."

"True. It's probably bad."

"In conclusion," Charles said, "a whole bunch of meteors fell from the sky, in a whole ton of different places, and we don't know why or what they were."

"In conclusion, our conclusion is that we have no conclusion because it's impossible to come to a conclusion at this time," Preston said.

"Yeah, sure." Charles grimaced. "Moving on to question two: those stupid annoying cubes."

"What about them?" Rachel asked.

"I mean, what the" – his voice dropped to a whisper – " _fuck_?"

"Charles, how _could_ you!?" Cary said with a British accent. "I'm reporting you to the Duke!"

"Shut your hole. Guys, I thought we were being GOOD by putting that machine together. I thought we were following orders."

"Whose orders?" Alice asked.

"Our – freaky alien friend, obviously!"

"Cooper?"

"Yeah, Cooper! Whatever you wanna call him. I thought we were helping! Because there was that whole thing with Joe's visions, and the telepathic connection – which I _still_ do not understand, by the way, but whatever, it's probably not important – so I assumed this was all related to him!"

Joe paused. "Actually… most of the visions sort of implied _not_ to turn on the machine."

Charles went red. "Then why didn't you say so!?"

"Because 'hey guys, I had a dream once' didn't seem like great evidence at the time!"

"Joe, it's all the evidence we've GOT."

"But that could mean there are _two_ sides," Martin interrupted. "One which led us to the cubes and stuff—"

"—and one which was telling us to stay away," Preston finished. " _Mysterious._ We've only met one alien so far. Maybe there's more."

"I… don't know how I feel about that."

"Regardless, the meteor shower was clearly our fault," Alice said.

"Was it, though?" Cary shrugged. "Just saying, if some guy in a suit comes knocking on my door I _definitely_ had nothing to do with—"

"Cary, it was our fault – unless it's one hell of a coincidence." She sighed. "The depressing thought is if we hurt somebody."

"But you didn't intend to," Rachel said. "You weren't expecting this to happen."

"Even then, it… it isn't great. Did any of you guys drive past the steel mill this morning? One of those meteorites flattened half the processing sheds. I don't know if anyone died, but that's _not_ something I wanna have on my conscience. And if the same thing happened all over the world… maybe we did something bad, guys. Maybe we made a mistake."

* * *

The conversation ended on a pessimistic note. Joe trudged back to his locker, collecting his books for the next class when a finger tapped his shoulder.

"Hey, Joe. Can I ask you something?"

"Oh, hey Preston. What's up?"

Preston swallowed. He looked strangely nervous. "Can I, ah – can I sleep at your place tonight?"

"Why? Are your parents out?"

"No. No, they're home." He paused, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

"Uh… yeah. Sure," Joe replied neutrally. _Is something wrong?_ "I'm not sure if my dad will like it, but it should be okay. Meet after school?" He grabbed his books.

"Yes, that would be preferable."

"Cool. See you later then."

"Bye. Thanks, Joe." Preston smiled gratefully and melted into the crowd, a pale, enigmatic ghost.

* * *

Preston sat at Joe's desk, models and paints pushed to one side, a maths textbook open before him. His pencil scribbled rapidly across the page, marking logarithms and exponentials in neat, logical lines. Joe had decided to take the bed option – flopped on his stomach, scanning pages of history notes as sunlight glared unpleasantly through the window.

"Hey. Would you mind closing the curtains?"

"Sure." Preston stood and pulled them shut.

The scribbling resumed. Joe turned a page. He stole a glance at the curly-haired boy; Preston seemed to be concentrating unusually hard, chewing his lip, had barely said a word in the last ten minutes. _Could be why he's smarter than you. Doesn't get distracted, unlike some people._ Joe rolled over, thinking of paper planes.

Preston hadn't mentioned why he wanted to stay over. Joe hadn't asked. He figured he'd known his friend long enough that Preston would tell him if it was important. _Maybe he had an argument with his parents? I mean, they seem nice, but I guess I don't know them extra well._ _Hopefully it isn't because of what we did on Friday._ Still, the way he'd behaved during the walk to Joe's house definitely wasn't his usual self. Not _hugely_ different, but more… brittle. On edge. It was hard to tell, exactly.

Suddenly there was a _smack_ as Preston slapped his forearm. He held up a small, recently-murdered fly, then flicked it into the bin.

"Good shot," Joe murmured.

"Thanks. Hey, do you want to hear a joke?"

"Um – okay?" Joe sat up curiously.

"Okay. So a squirrel is sitting in a pine tree, when all of a sudden, it starts shaking," Preston began. "He looks down, and sees an elephant climbing a tree.

'What are you doing? Why are you climbing my tree?' the squirrel calls down to the elephant.

'I'm coming up there to eat some pears!' the elephant replies.

'You fool! This is a pine tree! There aren't any pears up here!'

The elephant looks perplexed for a moment, and then says, 'Well, I brought my own pears.'"

Joe snorted loudly. Despite himself, he grinned. "I don't know why that's funny."

"But it _is_ funny."

"Somehow. Okay, I've got a joke too. It's a knock-knock joke."

"Yeah? What is it?" Preston asked.

"You start!"

"…Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

Preston opened his mouth, then closed it again. He paused, confused. "Um."

Joe chuckled, pointing triumphantly. "Ha! Got you."

"Oh, very funny." Preston rolled his eyes. "You should be a comedian with jokes like that."

"That's exactly what Charles said when I tried it on him."

"Good. By the way, do you guys have a piano? I could really do with some practice before my lesson tomorrow."

"Uh – nope. Sorry."

"Oh well, thought I'd ask." Preston sighed. "Back to work, I guess. Almost done with these idiotic math problems."

"Cool, afterwards we can watch TV," Joe said brightly. "Actually, do you want some food? I'm kinda hungry."

"Food would be good," Preston said thoughtfully. "Something with high sugar content."

"Pure sugar, coming right up." He stood, stretching his arms. "Back in a minute."

"'Kay. I might go to the bathroom then."

They exited his bedroom, Joe walking down the hallway into the kitchen, Preston turning right for the bathroom. Joe opened the pantry and cast his eyes over the rows of boxes, hunting for anything vaguely sweet. His gaze settled on a packet of choc-chip cookies. The use-by date had expired two months ago, which was basically an invitation to hurry up and eat 'em. He grabbed a plate, poured out the biscuits, was about to leave when he heard the TV crackle from the living room. Curiously, he poked his head around the doorway.

There was a news report on. He felt a sudden shiver when he saw the subject.

' _An unprecedented astronomical event has occurred in the Midwest town of Lillian, where a swarm of nearly one hundred meteorites impacted early Saturday morning. Though only one meteorite damaged the town itself – destroying part of the local steel mill – significant damage did result from fires in the surrounding forests. Two casualties are known at this time, both workers at the steel plant.'_

The screen displayed the devastated mill, construction crews rushing to clear the wreckage. The view panned slowly as the reporter spoke.

' _The exact nature of the meteorites is unknown, thought experts have been quick to reassure us that impact events of this type are exceedingly rare, with most debris burning up in the atmosphere. Despite this, a variety of similar impacts were simultaneously reported from around the globe, in countries as diverse as Greenland and Nigeria. In an unusual twist, the United States military has cordoned off part of the Lillian impact zone, refusing to allow any filming.'_

The view switched to a makeshift army checkpoint, blocking a hillside road. Smoke billowed from a nearby crater, solders crowding the scene. One noticed the cameraman and pointed, shouting angrily; there was a brief argument, weapons drawn. The cameraman turned and ran.

' _In brighter news, a new Guinness World Record has been awarded for the world's largest cat…'_

Joe was overcome with a sense of déjà vu; it wasn't a nice feeling. _It's the train all over again._ Swallowing, he moved back to the kitchen. He could hear his dad arguing too, on the phone in his office. _"Whaddaya mean you don't know where he is!? Did you check the hardware store?"_ Jack had been very busy, for obvious reasons, the office door firmly shut. At least it meant he didn't care about Preston sleeping over.

Joe carried the plate of snacks plus a bottle of juice. He'd just entered his bedroom when he heard a loud, muffled bang – then a scream, an _angry_ scream, cut short. _"AAAAAAH!"_

_Was that Preston? God, I've never heard that before._

Joe dropped the plate and ran to the bathroom, knocked on the closed door, suddenly worried. "Hey, dude. You okay?"

There was silence for a second. Heavy breathing. Then a hoarse, slightly sheepish reply. "Yeah, I'm fine. Are there any Band-Aids in here?"

* * *

"Dad, can I ask you question?"

"Of course, Rachel. What do you need?" He spun around in his chair, smiling tiredly; her dad seemed to get busier every day, amplified after the chaos of the weekend. Rachel stood in the doorway of his office, a small room in the corner of the house filled with boxes still waiting to be unpacked. Her mother was cooking dinner in the kitchen.

"Is it okay if I come home late tomorrow?"

"It's not a problem from my end. Provided you're home before sundown," he added.

"I should be. Thanks, dad."

"Visiting friends?"

"Sort of – you know Charles?"

"The bossy one?"

"That's him," she replied. "He asked me to go the arcade with him."

"Oh." Her father narrowed his eyes. "Ohhhh."

"…What?"

"Nothing," he said innocently. "You like him, then?"

"Sure. He's nice, funny. Talks a lot." Rachel shrugged. "And I haven't been to the arcade before."

"Fair enough. Just don't come home too late, alright? I don't want anything to happen to you. Especially now." He turned back to his work for a moment, as the smell of fresh vegetable soup wafted through the house.

Rachel paused, waiting. The night of the meteorite strike was preying on her mind, which she'd probably never forget as long as she lived _._ The fire. The earthquakes. That bizarre, blurry image of an egg which she couldn't force into focus no matter how strongly she tried to remember. The knowledge was like a weight, a lump of iron guilt. _And dad still hasn't asked about it. He MUST know something, but he still hasn't asked me. He just… smiles, waiting. Waiting for me to tell him._

_Because he trusts me. Because he knows I will._

_He CAN help us, or at least help to make sense of this. I know the others don't have faith in the military, apparently for good reason, but my dad isn't the air force. We've taken too long already._

"…Dad?"

"Yes, Rachel?"

"About Friday night… I think that was us."

He spun the chair again, sitting forwards, trying not to seem _too_ interested. "You mean the meteor shower?"

"Yes. I think – I think we made it happen. Charles and the others."

"Why on earth do you believe that?"

"Because they _made_ something, a machine. A silver machine. I helped them make it. On Friday, we brought it to the hills, and when they switched it on the sky…" She looked away. "…it opened. Then the meteorites came."

As she spoke, it got easier to tell him (though she did keep the less relevant parts under wraps, thanks to a quiet voice in her head which said _'Charles won't be very happy about this'_ ). It felt right. What the others had confided to her regarding actual, real-life aliens sounded crazy when repeated aloud, but still – she did believe them. And she could tell her father believed her. _We've both run away from things which are just as unbelievable, from a certain point of view._

"I think," her father said when she was finished, "that this – everything – could be related to what happened to you as a child. And your brother."

Rachel blinked in surprise. She'd expected him to ask for clarification, or start writing notes; not bring up the past. "As in the facility?"

"Yes, that… awful place. Their research, what the Japanese government was doing, was…" He frowned. "Many aspects are very similar."

"I don't want to think about it," she said flatly. It was almost a reflex. "I want to _forget_ it."

"Yes, but do you know what this means? Rachel, it's a sign that I've finally found what I was searching for. Sins of the past, meeting the present – that same path we've always followed, whether we've liked it or not." Her father leaned forwards, eyes bright. "It wasn't _luck_ that brought us here, to this random, American town. It was _fate_."

* * *

Rise Kujikawa was woken by water dripping on her forehead. _Drip. Drip. Drip._ Her neck ached, her throat raw, her muscles numb with pins and needles – so she concentrated on the water, gradually moving, twitching, getting blood back into tortured limbs. Information trickled into streams, streams joining rivers, the river building to consciousness.

She was hungry. Thirsty. Her stomach clenched around nothing, lips peeling and dry. _I was… I was running. Then I was falling. Must've been knocked unconscious._

_How long was I out? Minutes? Hours? Days?_

The world surrounding her was dark. Either it was night-time, or she was underground. Her body seemed to be figuring out how to operate again, re-booting its systems one-by-one. Now, a sudden influx of smells: wet earth. Sweat. Urine. Possibly her own.

She wasn't dead. That was, in a way, a nice surprise – it meant the army hadn't caught her. _But what did? The ground must've collapsed for a reason. Sinkhole, maybe. Landslide. Whatever was digging the tunnels underneath the school—_

 _That's right. Inaba. I was in Inaba._ The events of the last few days abruptly snapped back into place, and with them came another wave of pain. Rise groaned softly, biting her tongue. _Come on, you can do it. Open your eyes._

Progressively, the pain faded. She was in a cave. A large cave. Directly above her, twenty metres distant, was a rough ceiling of dirt. A series of thick pipes ran along it; from one of the pipes, water dripped. _Underground, then._ She moved her head. To the side was a jumbled slope of earth, clumps of sand and rock forming a slope into the blackness. At the top, a smattering of tiny openings glowed pure white, offering meagre potions of sunlight. _That's where I fell, then. Makes sense._ Rise turned over. And on the other side…

…were _demons_. It took her a long moment to process the scene, to reform the shadows and silhouettes into shapes she could understand.

At the rear was the largest. It was a black, indistinct mass, a shapeless congress of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, with myriads of temporary eyes – were they eyes? – forming and unforming as pustules of greenish light. Dozens of thick tentacles sprouted from its back, from its belly; a gaping, tunnel-filling mouth dripped with clear slime.

The sight didn't make sense. Nothing _made sense_. The very thought of something like that existing was—

Around it were dozens of smaller creatures. They were harder to see, but looked almost like lizards: enormous, chitinous lizards with abrupt, stuttering movements. Occasionally one of them would rear up, revealing skeletal arms that bent the wrong way.

The creatures hadn't noticed her. The largest one had obviously been there a while, its bulk half-buried in the earth, while the smaller beasts appeared to have emerged more recently, from a set of bony, spine-covered pods that lay in a watery crater. _Did those fall down here too?_ Rise wondered. _Am I dreaming?_ She wished there were more light; she wished she had a camera. And gradually, she noticed that they weren't moving aimlessly. They had _purpose._

A strange, organic tower rose in the centre of the cavern, covered in elastic black webbing. The lizards would dart towards it occasionally, making adjustments with eerily dextrous hands, then slither back to one of the pods. _What are they making?_ Rise squinted. Some of the lizards had things attached to their backs; more of the black webbing. Others carried small, orb-like objects. Was this a dream? It didn't feel like a dream. Somehow, the strangeness of what she was observing had temporarily overwhelmed any sense of shock.

Rise didn't know how long she'd been watching before one of the smaller creatures approached her. It seemed to blend with the shadows, a chameleon's camouflage, betrayed by the magnesium-bright pinpricks of its eyes. Instinctively, she turned her head.

The lizard realised she was awake. Rise scrambled back on hands and knees, suddenly afraid.

The creature considered her. Rise considered it. _It doesn't have two eyes… it has four._

Then it scrabbled towards her, alarmingly fast. She squeaked, panicking, her fingers touching something hard and sharp which she grabbed and threw in one desperate motion. The fist-sized rock missed the creature completely, whistling over its head, skidding across the cave in the general direction of the misshapen, luminous shadow.

Several things happened at once.

The rock hit… something.

The shadows leapt, roiling in surprise.

Tentacles whipped and slashed through the air, whistling, inquisitive, the only noise in the cavern. Then _CLANNGG!_ Fasteners breaking, a sudden _hiss_ of pressure and a misty spray splashed across her face right as a stinging sensation clawed at her skull like a vice. Jerky movements. Shadows, silent screams. She wished she could _see_.

But, through the fog of pain and darkness, Rise realised what had happened. _It – it made a mistake._ Strobing images flickered across her vision, the creatures remaining eerily quiet, the air strangely cold. _It's hurting it._

Whatever sliver of self-preservation she had left finally commanded her to run. She climbed to her feet unsteadily and staggered down into the crater – creature thrashing, lizards swirling like water – snatched up a piece of black webbing from the ground and heaved whatever it contained over her shoulder. _Can't help that curiosity, even if it kills you._ She spun, back to the distant sunlight and started hiking towards it. Liquid continued to spray from the burst pipe above, hissing, distracting. She glanced over her shoulder one last time, spotted something interesting. Something human. _Is THAT why?_

Rise climbed, higher and higher, out of her nightmare and into a strange new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few reviewers have already noticed, but this sequel has (semi-intentionally and semi-accidentally) mirrored the movie. Many scenes are fairly similar, and I've tried to take certain elements – such as the train crash – and put my own bigger, better spin on them. The general story structure is *vaguely* reminiscent too, which could be a hint for the next few chapters…
> 
> In other news, I've planned out the next 'section' of the story, and have a rough idea of the final two sections. It essentially means that it's going to be stupidly long and stupidly ambitious (but hopefully entertaining). It's also a questionable use of my time, considering how few people read Super 8 fanfiction, but I'd love to get it finished. THERE'S SOME REALLY AWESOME SCENES I WANNA WRITE, DAMMIT.
> 
> I regret introducing so many plotlines.


	31. I Spy

* * *

' _A possible mechanism for development of telepathy, in evolutionary terms, may be bioselection of neural networks with minimal interaction between neighbouring but unrelated neural systems. However, there is no scientific evidence that telepathy is a real phenomenon. Many studies seeking to detect and utilise telepathy have been carried out but no replicable results exist. A panel commissioned by the United States National Research Council concluded that "despite a 130-year record of scientific research on [paranormal] matters, our committee could ﬁnd no scientific justification for existence of such phenomena."'_

**— An extract from _Evolutionary Development of Psychic Phenomena,_ by Oscar Geller**

* * *

Jack Lamb knelt down next to the deer head, gazing into its dark, lifeless eyes. Behind him, Officer Tally was looking a little green and turned to face the road.

"Do you think a wild animal could… rip a deer apart like this?" Jack asked speculatively.

"I dunno, Jack. I kinda don't want to think about it." Tally scratched his moustache. "Probably. I mean, those bears get pretty big."

"Hmm. No wolves in these forests, are there?"

"Not that I know of."

"Hmm."

Tally stole another glance at the deer head, then abruptly turned around again. "Jack, if you're done 'hmming', can we go look at something else?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." He stood up, knees cracking, thumped Tally on the shoulder. "Never took you for a squeamish one."

"I'm fine, mostly. It's the smell that does it – and the maggots."

They trudged to the side of the highway, where a pale blue pickup truck had been parked and abandoned. They'd found a young woman's I.D. inside – a Taylor Lecuona, of Dayton – but Taylor herself was nowhere to be seen. _Not much in the way of evidence,_ Jack thought. _A bag of clothes in the back, an unloaded rifle, and that's it._ The vehicle had clearly been there a while. _Did the driver leave in a hurry? Let's think. She stops on the verge for some reason – maybe she sees something, maybe there's a problem with a car, maybe she wants to piss in the woods – and leaves the car running. So she thinks she won't be gone for long. And then… well, then she disappears. Not much to go on._

Jack leaned in through the passenger door, searching the glovebox for anything noteworthy. "The car – it stinks of dog, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, but we got no dog," Tally replied. "Think she had one with her?"

"Possibly. It's another thing to look for, anyway."

"Are you feeling this might be suspicious?"

"Hard to say. It's strange, though. Vanishing into thin air." He glanced to the road again, where a dried red trail snaked across the asphalt. Officer Jay had received the unenviable task of following the blood into the woods. They'd assumed it was the deer's blood, but still – it was unnerving. _Luckily the sun's shining._

Suddenly, Jack's police radio buzzed. He held it up to his ear. "Yeah?"

" _Jay here. I found something."_

"What is it?"

_"Dead dog, about fifty yards uphill. It's a big one. Collar says 'Smurf'."_

"Okay, that's good." Jack stopped himself. "Well, not _good_ obviously, but we think the driver owned a dog."

" _Copy that. I'll keep looking."_

"Thanks Jay, I'll come join you." He glanced at Tally, who was busy scribbling in his notebook. "Are you good to stay here awhile?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll put up some tape. I was just thinking…" Tally frowned. "You hear all those stories from interstate, about serial killer hitchhikers. Maybe this was one of those."

Jack faced the forest, staring at the thick, tangled green. "Thanks for that," he said dryly.

"No problem."

"'Cause you see, now I'm thinking about serial killers."

"Glad to help."

Jack sighed and, despite himself, checked if his revolver was loaded. "I'm going exploring for a bit, so give me a buzz if you—" Unexpectedly, the radio crackled again. He twitched. "This is Jack?"

_"Sherriff? It's Officer Gordon. I'm at the hardware store, and I've got some bad news."_

Something in the big man's tone made Jack's stomach sink. "Go ahead, Gordon."

" _It's, uh – Jerzy. The owner."_

"Yeah, I know him."

_"Well, he's… he's dead."_

Jack blinked. The sunlight suddenly seemed far too bright. "Whaddaya mean, dead?"

 _"He's in pieces. Five of 'em so far, but there's probably more we haven't recovered yet. There's a lotta blood. A whole lotta blood."_ Gordon coughed. He sounded sick.

"Pieces," Jack said flatly.

_"Yeah, pieces. Like he was simply… ripped apart. We found a few bits under the shelves, another in the roof. It's hard to tell what happened."_

"Holy Christ, Gordon."

_"Yep. That about covers it."_

"Holy shit."

_"Yep."_

Jack shook his head. One missing person was bad enough, but this… nothing like it had ever happened in Lillian. It wasn't a place where that _happened._ Being told on the radio kept the horror at bay, but he figured he'd have a different reaction once he saw the scene in person. "God, I just remembered – I talked to the guy a couple days ago, Saturday night. Any idea when he died?"

_"We're not quite sure. There's a forensics guy on his way from Dayton who'll give us a better idea, but best guess is twenty-four to forty-eight hours."_

"Okay. I'll be there in… well, I don't know when exactly, I've already got my hands full. You and the boys get some air if you need."

_"We definitely will. Oh, fuck me, looks like Rosko just found another arm in electrical. Gordon out."_

There was silence, the road empty, while Jack attempted to gather his thoughts into something resembling a plan. He closed his eyes, hoping against hope that they wouldn't find body parts scattered throughout the woods. _I talked to him TWO DAYS_ _ago, and now he's dead. Not just dead. Mutilated._

"What's up?" Tally asked.

"A lot is what's up." He grimaced. "Your serial killer comment is starting to sound less and less far-fetched."

* * *

Jack stopped his police cruiser at the checkpoint. Military roadblocks had been set up at the base of Mount Hawthorn, temporary gates blocking every route up the mountain. Half-a-dozen guards waited in the shade nearby, flanked by a pair of jeeps. Behind them, Hawthorn's peak was silhouetted by the sun, still burning and belching smoke in three different places.

 _It always gets weird when the army turns up. You go three months without a single suspicious death, and suddenly you get two in two days. If they weren't accidents, things could spiral out of control fast._ He stepped out of the car, made sure his Sheriff's badge was on full display and strode over to the nearest guard. "Who's in charge here?" he barked.

The young soldier stared at him in confusion. "Um… Major Erikson is the commanding officer—"

"Can I speak to him?"

"He's not here – he's at the command post further on. I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Can I go to the command post, then?"

"No, it's under quarantine for now. But there's nothing to worry about, the situation is under control. We're just making sure the area's safe."

"Safe from what? Russians?" Jack snorted. He'd had enough of trying to be nice to military assholes, and was about to say something he'd regret when – grudgingly – he reminded himself that the kid was simply doing his job. _They all are. Ninety-nine percent of 'em are good people, it's the ones in charge who're the problem._ He took a deep breath. "Could you pass a message to Major Erikson?"

"Maybe, but I can't guarantee—"

"Do your best. Tell him, or his staff or whatever, that I'll be expecting to hear from him before lunchtime tomorrow. He can reach me at the Lillian Police Station. Got it?"

"Um. Yes, I think so." To his credit, the guard was at least pretending to be helpful.

"Thank you," Jack replied. "Is there anything I should know?"

"Anything you should… know?"

"Yeah. Anything that – as the Sheriff in charge of protecting the people of this town – it would be useful or significant for me know."

"Not, uh… not really. We expect the roads to be reopened in a few days. There was some damage, but the situation is under control."

 _Of course it is,_ Jack thought bitterly. "Fine. You know who to contact if something happens." He walked back to the squad car. _Unproductive, as expected._ He hadn't _really_ been anticipating a useful result from the trip, but following every lead was part of the job. And it kept him away from the hardware store for another half-hour.

He was ready to leave when another voice stopped him. "Officer! A moment, please."

Jackson spun to face the new arrival: a man in a grey suit and sunglasses, with Asian features. He crossed to road to Jack's side, escorting a tall, dark-haired woman with a distinctly familiar face. _Wait, I know her. Is that?—_

"Who are you?" Jack asked.

"My name is Ryan. I'm working with the CIA, assisting the operation here." The man smiled hospitably, which immediately made Jack distrust him.

"Hi, Jackson," the woman added.

"Morning, Mrs Mills… I wasn't expecting to see you here." _Huh, it IS Preston's mother._

"Jack, I keep telling you, 'Diane' is fine."

"I see you two know each other?" Ryan said. "I was just speaking with Diane about the cleanup process. She had some proactive concerns about the meteor impacts; I'm guessing you share those concerns."

"Good guess," Jack replied.

"Then what would you like to know?"

The offer caught him off guard. "Well – what the military's doing here, for a start. What _you're_ doing here. Why the roadblocks? Why the helicopters? If it's a natural event, there's no need for a response like this."

"You're right, it's a natural event," the CIA man replied. "Unusual, but natural. The troubling aspect is that is also an _extraterrestrial_ event. The reason we're here is to prevent potential issues with interstellar contamination."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Interstellar _what_ now?"

"Contamination. If those meteorites contained any foreign organic matter, there could be severe health consequences. Think of it like… an alien virus. Our bodies aren't equipped to deal with such things. The impacts could be unpredictable."

"Uh-huh."

"Take my word for it. Not that there _is_ an alien virus, you understand, but we have to be careful. It's a precaution."

"Uh-huh."

"You seem unconvinced."

"Don't worry about me," Jack muttered. "Keep going."

Ryan shrugged. "Of course. Now, the reason I'm here in particular is that we've never observed an event of this magnitude before – never so many impacts in close proximity. That raises the risk, so the CIA and other government agencies want to ensure, in person, that the quarantine is performed smoothly and effectively. Does that answer your queries, Officer?"

"It… I don't know."

"If you have any others, ask for me and I'll see what I can do."

"I'll keep that in mind. So what does this 'quarantine' actually involve?"

"Now _that_ I can't answer." Ryan smiled again. "But it's safe, and we'll be out of your hair soon. Have a good day." He shook Jack's hand briefly, then walked through the checkpoint to a black SUV by the side of the road. Jack watched him with an inquisitive gaze. _First straight explanation I've received for a while. Should that make me trust him more or less?_

"Don't bother," Diane said suddenly.

"What?"

"Don't bother contacting him."

"Why?" Jack asked. "He sounded… reasonable."

"It's crap, all that stuff he's spouting," she murmured. "Forgive the language. Contamination? The risk is negligible. Zero. Zilch. The speed at which those rocks come through the atmosphere, it raises their surface temperature to three thousand degrees. No virus is going to survive that no matter _how_ alien it is."

"Right." Jack frowned.

"Which raises the question… what _are_ they actually doing on that mountain?" She squinted in the sunlight, shading her face with one hand. "I was intrigued, so I thought I'd ask. Got further than I thought I would, to be honest."

"Doing my job for me," Jack said wryly.

"Ha. I suppose you could say that."

"Well, I appreciate it – I could use the help." He gave her a sidelong glance. Diane was taller than he was, with a sharp face that reminded him of his seventh-grade schoolteacher and thin, square glasses; they'd never talked much in the past, apart from the usual 'our kids are friends' niceties. _Works as some kind of researcher, doesn't she? Probably more intelligent than I am._ "Let me know if you learn anything interesting, would ya?"

"Sure, Jackson. I will."

* * *

A fat, pixelated ostrich flew across the screen, being ridden – shockingly successfully – by a gold-armoured knight. Charles was controlling the ostrich; Rachel was shooting arrows. This arrangement was working well so far.

"Get that idiot! Get him."

"Charles, I can't shoot him if you don't fly closer."

"But then he'll get _us_."

"Charles, fly closer."

"Okay, fine."

The ostrich bobbed and weaved towards their enemy – a red knight, on a buzzard of its own – and Rachel hammered the 'fire' button. A pair of arrows stabbed into it, sent it flying off its rocky perch into the bubbling lava below. Charles dodged the return shots and flipped them round, aiming for the next knight. Half-a-dozen remained on the screen, scattered on different platforms.

"Ostriches can't fly," Rachel said suddenly.

"What?"

"This game's weird. Ostriches can't fly. They're flightless."

"It's probably a magic ostrich," Charles said, concentrating.

"Huh. I guess that's fair."

Their next enemy was destroyed amid a flurry of flapping wings, Rachel spearing it with a lance. The other machines in the arcade chimed and bleeped around them. Most light came from the screens themselves – an otherworldly blend of pale yellows, deep reds, neon blues – with the rest of the room concealed by dim, homely shadows. The carpet was a glow-in-the-dark pattern of stars and planets which gave the impression of floating in space. In the far corner, a posse of kids had crowded around an Asteroids cabinet, cheering on a new high score.

Charles and Rachel were currently hogging the Joust machine, huddled side-by-side to work the controls cooperatively. It was slightly cramped, but this, Charles decided, was probably a Good Thing. "Oh crap, it's a pterodactyl," he muttered. "Get it. Get it."

"Working on it." She fired. Missed completely.

"You—"

"—missed. Yes, I realise that."

The pterodactyl swooped closer. Charles backed away, nearly charging into another enemy. Rachel fired again – missed – and the pterodactyl arced downward with a surprising burst of speed. Its beak touched their knight and ostrich and they plunged into the lava, with the saddest series of beeps she'd ever heard.

Bright white text flashed on the screen: _'Continue? 9… 8… 7… (insert coin)… 6…'_

"Ugh. Damn." Charles shook his head. "It's always the freaking pterodactyl."

"She's pretty quick," Rachel agreed.

"By the way, that was totally your fault."

"Sorry, but no. If you weren't weaving around all over the place I could have shot it easy."

"Excuse _me_ – my weaving has saved us multiple times."

"Still, it's partly your responsibility to provide a stable platform." She raised a finger. "Your fault."

"Uh, I don't think so…" Charles trailed off. For some reason, his usual urge to argue at all costs was being suppressed. "At least you're better than Joe," he continued, "that dude has absolutely _no_ concept of how to aim. Hey, I'm kinda thirsty – you wanna drink? I'll buy you something." Charles reached into his pockets for some coins.

Rachel stopped him. "Wait, I've got money."

"It's fine, I have enough—"

"Charles. I can buy my own drink." She placed a crumpled dollar into his hand. "I appreciate the offer though."

"Okay." He smiled nervously. "Any preference?"

"Lemonade. Thanks."

Charles wandered off down the aisle, vanishing in the multi-coloured gloom. Rachel watched him for a moment before learning on the Joust cabinet. The trip to the arcade had been remarkably pleasant. Fun, even. It was nice to focus on a completely separate world for a change, without the concerns of school and her father and the rest. _Video games: weirdly addictive._

Charles was nice, too, and she'd noticed that she enjoyed spending time with him. He was… easy to talk to (partly because he did most of the talking for you, which suited her just fine). He was sometimes a bit bossy, and constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but the good definitely outweighed the bad. _It's because he wants to_ help _all the time. He wants to make sure things are perfect, and he wants everybody to share that vision._ There were groans from the Asteroids group as a player lost their last life, ship exploding in a mess of vectorised white.

Charles returned a moment later with drinks in hand. They were cold from the refrigerator and Rachel cracked hers open, listening to the familiar fizz. Her parents didn't usually let her have soda, but what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

"So what do you wanna do?" Charles asked. "We could play a game of Pizza Pizza… go flip through some levels of Sonic Boom… oh, and there's this mint game called Ninja Ninja Revolution."

Rachel shrugged. "I'm cool with whatever you recommend."

"Huh. No pressure." Charles grinned. "So how'd you end up in Lillian, specifically? Because of your dad, wasn't it?"

"…I suppose, technically, it's because of you."

"Because of _me_?!"

"Because of what you guys did, with the alien. My father only got transferred here due to that incident – so, indirectly, I'm here 'cause you guys succeeded." She paused. "It's nice to finally put that together."

"So basically, you're saying it was destiny."

"I wouldn't go _that_ far, but it was more than chance." She took another sip. "Thanks for arranging that, by the way. Lillian's nice."

"No problem. It's not like we nearly got eaten or shot or anything," he replied. "I wish you'd been here for it – probably could've saved us a lot of trouble."

"So what about you? How long have you been here?"

"Oh, forever. My whole life," Charles grumbled. He glanced at her. "It's a boring story."

"I know plenty of those."

"Were you happy moving around?"

"To Lillian, sure. Other places… it depends. It all blends together. Different towns, different schools, different houses, different friends…"

"Man, I think that'd be great, seeing a new state every year. Have any brothers or sisters?"

"I had a brother."

"Oh, cool. Cause I've got five siblings and that's _way_ too many. You wouldn't believe how annoying they are, it's incredible – wait. 'Had'?"

"Yes, he…" _It's guaranteed to come up sooner or later. Better get it out of the way._ "He died a few years ago," she said quietly. "His name was Kei."

Charles looked genuinely mortified. "Woah, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." _Standard response._ "He'd been sick ever since he was young, so it was expected, in a way."

"Still, that sucks."

"It does."

"You're… okay though, right?"

"Well…" She looked down. _Right, Rachel, time to unload. Time for a whole shotgun-blast of misery._ "Actually, I'm sick in the same way."

"What? _You're_ sick too?" Charles stared at her. "You're not gonna die on me, are you?"

"No, no. I have the same 'condition' but I'm fine. It's not a huge problem. Apparently it affects males much more severely."

"Huh, crazy." He took a deep breath. "I hate to even ask, but—"

"—it won't infect you, or anyone else," she replied. "Not without an enormous amount of work. They're safe."

"An 'enormous amount of work'?"

"You don't want to know." _Seriously, you don't._

"Wow," Charles said. "That's grim."

Rachel smiled wanly. "Mmm. I don't particularly like to talk about it, so – could you keep this between us, for now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." They exchanged a let's-change-the-subject sort of glance. "Next game?"

She nodded. "Next game."

* * *

Faces bathed in blue and green, the screen reflected in wide, focused eyes.

"Man, you're good at this," Charles muttered.

"No talking. Just racing."

Two F1 cars whipped around a curving grey track, flat-shaded grass and sky transformed into something _realer_ by speed and imagination. Rachel's car was a split-second ahead, entering the final corner first, chequered flag coming up along the next straight. She crossed the finish line with burst of confetti, digitised victory music blaring from the speakers.

Charles finished the course a moment later. He slapped the joystick with a disappointed sigh, secretly hiding a smile. They turned to face each other.

' _Continue? 9… 8… 7…'_

* * *

They stood in Alice's overgrown backyard, under a sky wisped with clouds. Dry grass crunched underfoot, pale and scratchy. A solitary oak provided a dappling of shade, the remnants of a treehouse still nailed to its lower branches. Dilapidated garden furniture lay at the end of a gravelly path. Most of the neighbours hadn't bothered with fences and Joe could see half-way up the street; a couple of kids were playing chasey a few yards down as their mother watered the lawn.

"So… why are we here?" Joe asked.

Alice smiled, a little evilly. "Remember that time I mentioned I was learning karate?"

"Um. No?"

"I _swear_ I told you. How my dad used to learn, how I thought it might be useful…"

"Not ringing a bell, sorry."

"It was a while back, before Cary set that air force base on fire."

"Oh, back _then_? That was aaaages ago, it's been kinda hectic."

"It has. But – I've been learning karate." The smile grew wider. "And I need somebody to test my skills on."

Joe backed away slightly. The eager look on her face made him uneasy. "Define 'test'."

"You try and attack me, I'll try and defend myself. It's simple. You barely have to do anything."

He took another step back. "Is it gonna hurt? 'Cause you have to tell me if it's gonna hurt."

"It won't hurt. I'll be gentle."

"Can't Cary do it? He'd enjoy it."

"Cary's too small, I'd be afraid of breaking him."

"Now I'm _really_ nervous."

"Joe, it'll be fine," Alice said reassuringly. "This is WAY down near the bottom of the 'scary things we've done' list. Trust me."

"Yeah, but none of that list involved my girlfriend trying to murder me before."

"Now you're just exaggerating." She rolled her eyes. "Stand over there, under the tree."

 _Right – I probably should've realised I don't have a choice._ Joe sighed and trudged over to the oak tree, stopping part-way to tighten his shoelaces. It was a delaying tactic. They were his good sneakers, too, the red and white Adidas ones. "Should I take off my shoes?"

"Not unless you plan on kicking me. There's fine."

Joe stopped, turning to face her. Alice cracked her knuckles, tying her hair back. She looked kind of flimsy in her striped blue top and shorts; not like a person who was capable of defending herself. _I guess that's an advantage, in a way?_

"Okay, so I want you to try and punch me," Alice said calmly.

Joe blinked. "Like – hard?"

"Not super hard, but make it realistic. Aim for my face."

"I am _not_ punching you in the face!"

"Nope, but you're gonna try."

"Well… if you say so." Joe swallowed, shaking his head. "I just want to make it clear that I don't support this plan."

"Objection noted. Now punch me in the face."

"O-kay…" _This afternoon got weird all of a sudden._ He steeled himself, balling his fist, arm tensed. There was a metre of space between them. _I can pull back, make sure I don't actually hurt her_. "I'll do it on three. One… two… three—"

It was a weak punch. Still, he stepped forwards, vaguely aiming his fist at her ear and before he quite knew what was happening Alice had somehow leaned sideways, grabbed his arm, yanked him forwards _hard_ – he fell into her off-balance and she twisted like a snake, pinning his arm straight against her chest so he that was suddenly forced to his knees.

Joe gasped. Alice pushed his arm forwards and pain exploded in his joints. "Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow!"

"You want me to let go?"

"Ow! Yes!"

"Really? I haven't even—"

"PLEASELETGO."

"Alright." Alice set him free and leapt away, grinning like a maniac. Joe coughed, climbed to his feet. "So for the next one—"

"Uh-uh," he interrupted, shaking a finger. "That's it."

"But I barely did anything!"

"Exactly! That's what makes it so scary!"

"Two more," Alice pleaded. "Two moves, that's all I'm asking."

"…Two?" _I can probably handle two more._ "Fine. But I get a super huge favour in return."

"Deal." Alice grabbed his shoulders and manoeuvred him to an open patch of grass. The sun dipped behind a cloud, momentarily shading the yard, then emerged again, glittering brilliantly from the upstairs windows. "Make sure there isn't anything around you," she muttered, "I don't want to kick you into a rosebush or something."

"…kick me?"

"Yeah." She scanned the grass. "Looks good. 'Kay, for this one, all you have to do is stand there. Get both your arms and raise them to the left of your head – yeah, like that – clasp your fingers together and brace. That's your protection."

Joe followed her instructions. "I don't feel very protected."

"It means I'm kicking your arm instead of your skull," Alice explained, with what seemed like inappropriate calmness. "So keep your hands there."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Joe muttered. "Can't I like, duck or something?"

"Nope."

"…okay then." He felt rather exposed in the middle of the yard, glanced to his right and saw a couple of kids curiously observing. "We've got an audience."

"Good." Alice waved to them, then marked her distance to Joe; planted her feet like a golfer teeing off. "This is fun, isn't it?"

"It _really_ isn't."

Joe prepared himself for the kick. He tried to relax, anticipating what it'd feel like. Alice tensed, looked down for a moment – then unfurled like a whip. She moved in a blur, one foot shooting into the air, pirouetting around the other till her shoe smacked squarely into Joe's upraised forearms. The impact didn't _hurt_ as such but sent him staggering sideways, the force nearly shoving him off his feet.

"Ow. Again." Joe gave Alice an accusing look. Her shoe had left a red imprint on his skin. "That was _hard_."

"There's no point practicing if you don't try and make it real," she replied. "How much d'you think it would hurt if I did hit your head?"

"A lot. Definitely a lot," he said firmly.

"Good. It's meant to. Because I thought, you know – if we ever get cornered by army goons again, or minions, or henchmen, or whatever you wanna call 'em – it'd be cool if we at least had a _chance_ of defending ourselves. Not that kicking somebody is easy, obviously, or guaranteed, but it could give us an opportunity to escape."

Joe couldn't help feeling a hint of admiration. "That's pretty good forward planning."

"Well, I hope I never have to." She frowned briefly. "One more?"

"I'm ready."

"You can probably stay there, actually," Alice said. "I'll move back." She turned and jogged to the far side of the yard. "Now, charge at me."

"Just… run?"

"Yeah, like you would for a football tackle. Charge towards me."

"Right." _I'm scared._ "Here we go."

Joe swallowed and pushed off, breaking into a run, then a sprint. He saw Alice's eyes widen and realised he might be going faster than she'd been expecting, realised that would probably be worse for him than her but by then it was too late. Two bounding strides later he reached her, went for the tackle just as his legs were – very sneakily – swept out from under him. He flew through the air for a second like Charles in full belly-flop mode, managed to spin and land shoulder-first on the grass. The world jolted. Joe twisted onto his back as he slid to a stop, understandably surprised, and before he could do anything else Alice jumped over him and sat heavily on his chest.

Joe wheezed. "Oof!" She planted her legs on either side of him, trapping his arms by his sides.

"Got you," she said mischievously.

"Yeah. Got me." He coughed a few times, a mixture of surprise and laughter. _That probably looked ridiculous._ "Good job." Joe stared up at her, his view a blend of bright blue sky and long blonde hair. A few strands tickled his nose and he blew them aside with a sharp breath, unable to do much else. His shirt was crumpled beneath him, lying loose around his shoulders.

"Can I get up now?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Because I can't really move."

"Yeah, I know. What a shame." She shuffled back, onto his stomach. Joe shifted experimentally, recovering from the unexpected exercise. _Unexpected_ beating _, you mean._ Still trapped. Alice grinned, leaning closer towards him – much closer – till their faces were inches apart. He went mildly cross-eyed trying to focus. "So what's that favour you were going to ask me?" she added.

"I'll save it," Joe answered. "For something really huge. Or hard. Or possibly painful."

"Uh-huh." She pouted a little. Suddenly, he found himself staring at her lips: pale, and soft, with the slightest hint of moisture. "What are you looking at?"

"Um… nothing much."

"Is that right." She closed the gap without another word and planted a kiss on his lips.

Joe spluttered in surprise. An unfortunate quantity of spit gushed into the air.

"What was that for?" Alice asked, recoiling.

"Sorry! Sorry." He blushed, hard. "It's just that you should really warn me before—"

She kissed him again and this time he went with it, the world briefly becoming a mouth and her breath and a curtain of golden hair. He knew he was going red like he always did, Alice's form on top of him somehow accentuating the feeling, gravity locking them together. Electric shivers thumped in his chest. Her lips were sweet, her skin hot to the touch, pressing against his own.

She withdrew, staring into his eyes. He gazed back, lost in blue. Another two kisses, one on each cheek.

Joe smiled and turned his head to the side. He noticed the kids past the neighbours' house were still watching them with disgusted expressions on their faces; they couldn't have been more than ten years old.

"Ew," one of them said loudly.

"Gross," the other agreed.

Alice leapt off him fast as a lightning bolt. She stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. Joe wasn't quite sure what to do and settled for giving the kids a feeble thumbs-up. They giggled, then fled round the corner of the house.

"We should probably go inside," Joe murmured.

"Yes," Alice said. "Lets."

* * *

Some time later, Joe opened his eyes. Gradually, the room blurred into focus. _I'm in Alice's room… on Alice's bed._ He'd felt tired after their – cough – activities, so Alice had suggested he have a quick rest before going home, and one thing had led to another and now he was sleeping in Alice's bed. Or, more accurately, on top of Alice's bed. Perfectly innocent.

Still, it felt weird. Not like being forced to share a sleeping bag with Preston during school camp, but more… illicit. Exciting. _Ha, my dad would probably arrest me._

Joe heard a tiny snort to his right. He turned and saw Alice.

Lying next to him.

Snoring quietly. One of his hands was on her chest, in fact, rising and falling gently with her breathing. _Well. Um. This is interesting._ He considered shifting his hand, but decided not to. _I mean, it's already there, right? And she looks so comfortable_. Her eyes were closed, one arm laying across her stomach, the other dangling off the far side of the bed. Joe raised his other wrist, glanced at his watch to check the time. _4:45PM. Phew. Not too late._

He lay back, staring at the ceiling. Unconsciously, he slowed his breaths to match Alice's. Tried not to think about what was _under_ his hand. _I wonder how the bases fit into this. Like, first base, second base, third base. Cary is always going on about them but I'm pretty sure he has no idea what it means. Kissing is first base, right? And why 'bases?' What's baseball got to do with it?_ He wriggled to find some more of the pillow, and noticed Alice had opened her eyes.

She smiled in the dimness, the curtains closed; but her smile seemed to emit a warm glow of its own. She snuggled up to him, then reached out to touch his face, as if making sure it was real. Fingers trickled delicately across his forehead, past his ear, along his cheek, finishing part-way down his neck. Joe shuddered involuntarily.

"What'cha thinking?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"…you snore," he replied, before he could stop himself.

"What?"

"You were snoring. Quietly."

"I was not," Alice retorted.

"Hey, I would know." He grinned. "Sorry. What are you thinking about?"

She was about to reply when she closed her mouth again. Suddenly, her face fell, like a mask briefly removed before snapping back into place; an unhappy spark, glinting in her eye. Then it was gone.

"Family," she said eventually. "Family is hard."

"You look sad," Joe murmured.

"I'm not sad; not here. Just… what's the word?" She gazed upward. "Pensive." She turned over and nestled closer to him, the contours of her back matching Joe's chest and stomach, knees drawn up in an affectionate embrace. He breathed in, then laid an arm over her shoulder. Felt her relax, pressing against his body.

"That's better," she said.

* * *

"That's better," Cary said.

"What's better?"

"My seat was too low – like a chair for giants."

"AKA normal people," Charles retorted. "Get it? Because you're a midget—"

"GOD, CHARLES, ENOUGH WITH THE SHORT JOKES!" Cary screeched. A few kids in the cafeteria turned to stare.

"Um… sorry," he muttered.

"Ha! I'm kidding. You should've seen your face though, it's like you actually cared about me."

Charles glared at him. "Alright. But tell me if you think I'm going too far."

"Okay."

"No, seriously, tell me. Seriously, Cary. Seriously. I don't wanna hurt your feelings."

"Okay, fatface," he hissed.

"Cary, tell me. We're friends, right? Please tell me if—"

"How 'bout we get on with it?" Alice interrupted sweetly. "Before I murder both of you."

Charles blushed. "Alright, meeting's in session. What's new?"

They were stuck at school during a warm Wednesday lunchtime, once again required to meet in public due to the whole meteor incident. _And there's seven of us now_ , Joe noticed. _It's difficult to get that many people in one place, especially when half of us are grounded._

"I heard a couple of people died," he said aloud. "My dad's been worrying about it all week."

"Died!?" Martin asked. "Where? When? How?"

"That guy who owns the hardware store, plus a girl from outside town. I think it happened on the weekend." Joe looked around the table. "It sounded bad. I don't know any details though."

"Do you think it's related to the meteors?" Charles asked.

"I hope not."

"Ominous," Rachel murmured.

"Portentous," Charles added, with an odd little smirk. "A few people died after the alien escaped in the summer… _or_ got kidnapped and taken to its lair." He glanced at Alice. "Could be the same thing."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Preston said, "because as far as we know, there aren't any angry extra-terrestrials running around."

"As far as we know," Martin echoed grimly.

"Then what do we do?" Cary asked. He sucked the last sliver of juice from his juicebox.

Alice shook her head, exhaling loudly. "There's nothing we _can_ do. We don't have any leads, no information. The alien machine only gave us dead ends."

"What about the stuff we stole from the base?" Joe asked. He felt a tingle as Lieutenant Forman's face sprang forth unbidden, strapped to the chair in the plain white room. "We went through a _lot_ for those documents. Is any of it useful?"

"I've been looking," Preston replied, "but it doesn't make much sense without context. It's like – imagine trying to learn a song without knowing how to read the notes. You could do it, but it's much easier with that foundation."

 _Hmm._ Joe thought for a moment, something tickling at the back of his mind. "Wait. Wait, I totally just remembered – I got a letter. It was from somebody at the base, a woman, who stopped them from… hurting Martin and I." _Hurting us_ more _, anyway._ "The letter said we could contact her in an emergency, if we ever needed help. It listed a phone number."

Charles stared at him for a second. "And you're only telling us this _now_?!"

"Well – I kinda forgot? And hey, it hasn't _really_ been an emergency yet, has it?"

"Okay." Charles took a breath. "Dude, you have to call her."

"Yeah dude, call her," Cary said, "this sounds awesome."

"We don't actually _know_ if she can help—" Joe began.

"Who cares? It's better than sitting around on our asses."

"Do you know who she is?" Rachel asked suddenly. "The woman?"

"Um, not really. Why?"

"We're placing a lot of faith in this letter. It might not be legitimate. _Or_ helpful."

"I suppose I'm the only one who met her…" Joe trailed off. "She _seemed_ nice. Like she knew what she was doing. I wasn't exactly thinking straight, though; I probably would've followed Hitler if he let me out of that room."

"Hm," Rachel said.

 _Mysterious as always._ "I'll call her tonight."

"Good," Charles said. "And moving on from Hitler talk, I had an idea. We should make a list of everybody's strengths, what we're good at – it'll help when we're making plans. For example, Preston's good at messing with computers, so that means we can steal stuff off computers if we ever need to. Just in case."

"I appreciate the compliment Charles, but it's not that simple—"

"And you're good at math, right?"

"Yes, fine, I'm above-average at math." Preston held out a hand. "But that doesn't mean I can—"

"Preston: math – and – computers – and – playing the piano," Charles muttered, scribbling in his ever-present notebook. "Alice, what's your expertise."

She pursed her lips. "…I can drive. Can any of you guys drive?"

"Nope."

"Plus she can do karate," Joe added.

"Like, kick-people-in-the-face karate?" Cary asked, suddenly interested.

" _Especially_ the kicking part," he replied. "Trust me."

"Okay. Okay, that's great," Charles said. "Rachel, how about you."

"Fixing or rewiring electronics. I can speak Japanese, if that's relevant. And I can shoot a gun – my father makes me practice sometime. All sorts."

"Remind me never to piss you off," murmured Charles. "Cary? Wait, let me guess: your special skills are blowing shit up combined with a total lack of self-preservation."

"Screw you, Charles."

"I'm _totally_ right, though."

Cary snorted. "Sure. And don't forget lockpicking."

"Hey, that's a handy one, I won't. Joe?"

"Um…" He wracked his brains. _I'm not sure if I have any special skills._ "Oh, yeah. Alien mind powers."

"Right, right. Debatably useful so far, but probably important."

"When you say 'mind powers'," Rachel began, "what's that mean?"

"Creepy visions, mostly," he replied.

"Have you read the book _Carrie_? By Stephen King?" She thought for a moment. "On second thoughts, perhaps don't."

Their English teacher, Mrs Wheatley, walked past with a friendly wave, a group of younger students in tow. Charles waved back. When you got down to it, he could be a bit of a teacher's pet. "What about me?" he asked.

"Talking too much," Cary said. "Ordering people around. Being bossy."

There was a chorus of agreement across the table.

Charles scowled at them. "Whatever guys, I'll put that under 'planning'. You'd be lost without me. Also, I know about codes and ciphers."

Cary flicked a Cheeto at him. "Charles, borrowing a book from the library one time doesn't make you an expert—"

"Well, do any of _you_ guys know Morse Code? Ha, I thought not. Dot-dot-dash-dot, dot-dot-dash – look it up," Charles retorted. "And I'm on the football team."

"Great." Cary shrugged. "I'll make sure to call you if I ever need to throw a ball really far."

"Shut up dude, it might be important." Charles wrote it down. "Now, I think that's everyone—"

"Ahem." Martin coughed theatrically.

"Oh, right – sorry Martin."

"He's basically saying you have no talents," Preston quipped.

"I'm NOT saying that, I just forgot. Martin, what are you good at?"

"Uh…" He scrunched up his face. "…Acting?"

"Martin, there has to be _something_."

"Charles, seriously, you've forced me into like, five of your movies – I'm pretty good at pretending to be a shitty detective by this point. _And_ I've learned lots about first aid. You don't spend a month in hospital every year without picking up some knowledge _._ " He grinned weakly. "I never thought getting sick all the time would be valuable."

"Let's hope that skill _doesn't_ come in handy," Charles said. "One last thing: we need a team name."

"Do we?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, like a name for our group."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Charles, this isn't a quiz night."

"Hey! You two aren't allowed to gang up on me. A name would be cool – I was thinking something like 'Investigation Team.'"

"Real catchy," said Cary. "Just rolls off the tongue."

"Have you got a better idea?"

"Ummm… the Super Seven?"

"We aren't in an Enid Blyton book," Preston said. "I vote no."

"Justice League?" Martin proposed.

"Already taken. Also, kinda comes with high expectations," Preston said.

"Lillian All-Stars," Martin suggested.

"Nope."

"Teen Titans."

"Catchy, but doesn't make sense."

"Alien Hunters."

"Sounds violent.

"Guardians of the Galaxy."

"Hmmm. Maybe?"

"Awesome Squad."

"Nah."

"Truth Knights?"

"Now you're just being cheesy," Charles interrupted. He sighed disappointedly. "If you guys won't take this seriously, we'll save the name for a later date. One final thing—"

"Charles, you said that WAS the last thing," Cary groaned.

"I know, I know, this is definitely it. We still need to film the next scene of the movie."

"Really?" Martin asked, a voice for everybody at the table. "Do we really? Honestly, Charles, I can't be bothered. It's the last thing on my mind right now."

"Yeah, but we've come this far. We can't abandon it now," Charles urged. "Besides, the serious side of things is stalled until Joe contacts his mystery woman."

"But we're still grounded," Preston said. "Or – some of us are."

Charles shrugged. "Film for thirty minutes after school tomorrow? That isn't too suspicious."

They exchanged a glance, Cary munching on his Cheetos. "Alright, whatever," he replied, his words muffled by salty goodness. "Just to shut you up."

* * *

Preston watched with an impassive stare as the scene played out before him. The boom mike felt heavy in his hands and he shrugged his shoulders, trying to lessen the dull ache.

"Something I did changed the timeline," Alice was saying. "It's _different_ now, but why? We must be getting close to the truth."

Martin took her hand gently. "Mary, your actions aren't the only cause. I'm sorry, but… I've always known. I could never tell you before."

Preston sighed under his breath. A month ago, he'd cared about the movie. He'd even been slightly impressed by the twisty plot Charles was cooking up. Now, though, he simply couldn't muster any enthusiasm. _None of this matters, does it. It's meaningless. Capturing it on a film reel just makes that_ more _obvious._

Today's filming location was the gymnasium steps, a wide red-brick set of stairs with a scuffed handrail running down the middle. The kids on the basketball team gave them weird looks as they passed, on their way to training inside. Nobody was in the mood today; even Alice appeared vaguely disinterested. The uncertainty of the past few weeks hung over them like a shadow, as if reminding them of more vital concerns.

"What? You knew – all this time?" Alice asked.

Martin nodded, sadly, urgently. "I'm sorry I've been lying to you. I couldn't let you find out about me, about this conspiracy because you're… important, Mary. You're the key."

"They key to _what_?"

"It's too late! We have to run, before the killer finds us." Martin grabbed her arm and pulled her away, running out of frame. Joe walked past a moment later (taking Preston's usual job as Background Extra #1). Charles' camera panned upwards, taking in the plumes of smoke that shrouded the Lillian hills for an ominous end to the scene.

"Cut!" Charles announced. "Great job. Then you guys are chased by Rachel's character – which is where action shots from before fit in – and do the 'diving into time' bit." He grimaced. "I haven't worked out the special effects for that yet. Are you ready to do one more take?"

Preston swallowed. "Um, Charles – I have to go. I really, _really_ have to go."

"You do? It'll only be five minutes."

"I – sorry." He looked down and leaned the microphone against the railing, avoiding Charles gaze. "Have fun." Swiftly, he grabbed his schoolbag from the steps.

"I guess we don't really need…" Charles trailed off.

"Someone else can hold the microphone."

"But—"

"Bye." Preston turned away, cutting him off. He imagined the others' stares but it was easier to just ignore them; he began walking swiftly along the path, shoulders hunched till he was out of earshot. His quick, determined stride soon took him around the corner. _I hope that wasn't too shifty._

_…It was pretty shifty. But they don't know what it's like, I have to get home. Or I could sleep at a friend's house again? Can't use Joe this time, but Martin might let me stay._

_I wish running away wasn't so hard._

* * *

Preston was wandering the streets near the cemetery when Cary jumped out from behind a bush.

"Boo!"

He froze like a startled goldfish. "You followed me."

"Of course we followed you, you've been acting weird for weeks," Cary retorted.

"Yeah," Joe said behind him, a little out of breath. "What's up?"

"Nothing. It's nothing," he said quickly.

"Well, _something's_ bothering you, and it's been getting worse."

Preston retreated slightly, backing away, swapping his gaze between Cary and the others. _Cary, Martin, Joe. The rest must've stayed behind to pack up._ Suddenly, his back hit a tree trunk by the cemetery fence, dislodging a brief shower of apple blossoms. He twitched. "I never noticed you."

"Because we are _masters of stealth_ ," Cary replied. "Now, 'fess up. Give us the goods." He mimed firing a pistol at Preston's chest.

Preston blushed, searching for an escape route. "No! There's nothing to worry about. Just go home."

"Go home?" Cary frowned. "Then what the hell are you doing here? Your street's the opposite direction, isn't it?"

"Yes, but going home would be a very ineffective form of running away – oops." He clapped a hand over his mouth.

"You're RUNNING AWAY?" Martin asked incredulously.

"No! Obviously not, that would be the height of stupidity. I was… thinking about it."

"You were thinking of running away without TELLING ME?"

"Martin, I was only—"

"I can't _believe_ you," Martin said, folding his arms in a huff.

"We're getting off-topic," Joe interrupted. "Preston, there has to be a reason."

They'd surrounded him now, preventing his escape _._ The apple blossoms smelled sickly sweet. Above, the sky was a flat, uniform grey, darker stormclouds threatening to gather on the horizon. The distant hills had a foggy sheen, a telltale sign of faraway rain. _I suppose it's technically fall in a few days._

 _I have to tell them something_. Preston sighed theatrically, glancing at the grass beneath his feet. "It's not important. My parents are making me move to Pangaea."

Joe blinked. "Wow. When?"

Martin narrowed his eyes. "No they aren't. Pangaea doesn't exist."

"Yes it does," Preston said, whirling to face him. "It definitely does."

"Pangaea was a supercontinent that broke up 175 million years ago." He turned to Joe. "Which _you_ should know because we covered it in geography last year."

"…Did we?"

"Preston, hurry up and tell us," Cary said. "I have TV shows to watch."

"Then go! Guys, I don't want to talk about it. Just leave, it's not important—"

"Who cares if it isn't important!" Cary shouted suddenly, echoing over the cemetery grounds. "It's important to you, that means it matters."

Joe stared at him for a second. "Wow, Cary, that was actually kinda… sweet."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." He stomped his foot angrily.

"Would talking alone help?" Martin asked.

For a moment Preston's heart fluttered. _I didn't even have to ask him! I can go to Martin's and stay awhile, think about what to do._ But four anxious faces were watching him, not one. _They're so persistent. THEY'RE SO PERSISTENT._ "No," he said eventually. "Not really. But thanks anyway."

"Dude, you're making us worry about you," Martin said. "Why won't you talk?"

"Because it's a stupid reason."

"Don't you trust us, then?"

"No, I do! I do trust you. I…" He sighed, for real this time. "I might to be forced to stop hanging out with you."

"Why?" Joe asked.

* * *

He made a conscious effort to slow down, to not spew out words like he usually did. "To be honest, my test scores haven't been amazing lately," he began. "My parents really go nuts over things like that, and getting caught after the meteor shower didn't improve the situation. So they basically ordered me to quit seeing you outside of school, and obviously I'd never actually agree to that, which is why I hate living with them. See?" He shook his head. "Told you it was stupid."

"But if that's true, you just need to improve your grades, right?" Martin asked.

"You'd think so, but once my parents tell me I can't do something… they'll never allow it."

"But if you talked to them clearly—"

"I'm telling you, they won't listen!" _Oops, that got loud._ He took a breath. "They're _stubborn_. The kinds of people who believe in 'lessons'. I won't be allowed to see you."

"Preston, you can't go on like this either," Joe said.

"Were you thinking that if you didn't go home, your parents would actually say 'hey, we made a mistake?'" Martin added. "Were you honestly thinking they'd give their approval based on that? If you _want_ their approval, aren't their much better ways to get it?"

"Dude, you're making things worse," Cary hissed.

Preston gazed emptily down the street, considering a reply, then shredded it. _They'll never understand._ He leaned against the tree with knees bent, sliding down the rough, painful bark till his schoolbag caught on a branch. The rain was getting closer. He could pick out individual sheets of it, sweeping past the steel mill chimneys. _They'd better run home quick unless they want to get wet._

"I suppose the REAL source of the problem is that I hate studying," Preston said. "Which is a shame, because it's _kind_ of the only thing that makes me worth something."

"That… that isn't true," Joe replied.

"Of course it is! 'Preston the smart kid' is essentially my entire identity. That's what everybody at school remembers me for, that's what my parents _like_ about me, that's what I'm good at. Without it, I'm nothing."

"I can't believe you hate studying," Joe said.

"See?" His voice cracked. "You're surprised, which is exactly the problem! 'Oh, look at Preston, he's so smart'. That's the only thing people say. What they DON'T realise is that's is basically just a crapton of work, I don't magically know everything. Um – sorry." _I don't want to yell._

"Hey man, don't be sorry," Cary said. "Lay it on me."

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. "I used to _like_ maths, you know. I _liked_ it. It was interesting. Other subjects, too. But then, it got – it got too much. My parents…" He paused, trying to frame the words. "I don't get angry very often, but when I do… I was angry at them every day, almost. Just being in that house made me angry. I couldn't stand it." He remembered another town, another school, another set of friends. A time tinged in black-and-white and boring, endless greys.

"We should've done something," Joe murmured. "We should've noticed."

Preston clenched his fists. _You're too nice, Joe. Martin and Cary too. I'm surprised you actually chased me. Still… I'm glad you did, sort of._ He sniffed, unable to look at their faces."Do you remember that other school I went to?"

"Yeah, of course," Martin said. "Grades five and six. You disappeared for a while."

"It was my parents who picked that school for me," he explained, keeping his voice level. "They wanted me to go to a good university so they transferred me to a 'gifted education centre' in Dayton. During middle school… I spent every single day studying. Nothing in my life could've been considered 'fun'. Over time, I no longer understood what I was studying so hard for." _Why I'm STILL_ _studying so hard._ "From then on it started to become painful. At the time, my parents hated seeing me like that, so they allowed me to come back to Lillian High, and that's why I can spend time with you guys now – I couldn't live up to my parents' expectations. If I'd continued at that school, I'd never have stayed friends with all of you."

"I didn't realise," Martin said. "You never mentioned it much."

"Well, now you know why," he answered bitterly.

Martin fished around in his backpack for his water bottle. "Wanna drink?"

"No. No, I'm fine." The sky was growing darker, cumulus clouds streaming from the hills. _Storm's arrived quickly._ Soon it would reach the cemetery and the four boys standing outside. "It's why, when my parents told me to stop seeing you guys, it was like everything I could see went dark. I thought it'd be like before, when there was nothing in my life that was any fun, because… they're planning to move me again."

"Wait, again? For real?" Martin asked.

"Yeah. My mom and dad – they want me to go to Harvard, you know? They wanna give me the best opportunities. And I appreciate that, I know it'd be amazing, but to accomplish it they're saying I should move to a different school. A 'better' school." Preston sighed. "There's a very important entrance exam for those schools coming up, which… it's basically the reason they've wanted me to study so hard recently. Why they've been pushing me. The sad thing is, it only makes me wanna stay here even more."

"I don't want you to move," Cary said simply.

"Neither do I," Preston replied. "I mean, who _cares_ about entrance exams, or fancy schools? I can do fine here. I _like_ Lillian. Why can't they see—" He stopped himself, clamping his mouth shut. Years of frustration and self-loathing abruptly bubbled to the surface and he couldn't be bothered holding it in. _Not anymore._ "This is – this is trivial! Compared to aliens, or murders, or you guys getting tortured by the army, it's a stupid problem. I mean, Joe's mom is dead for god's sake! I should be _glad_ I have this problem! I've got a chance to go to a great school and a great university and get a great job. It's… it's pathetic. _I'm_ pathetic. I'm so pathetic."

"Don't say that," Joe said firmly. "Or I'll get Alice to kick your face in."

He twitched in surprise. "What?"

"I mean it. She can do that now."

"I… whatever." _He's trying to distract you._ "All I want is to help you guys save the world. I want to help, it's important, but there's all this other _pressure_ in the way. There's always been pressure. All the time, my whole life. It's exhausting."

Martin shrugged. "Dude, we can give you space – we understand if you can't hang out sometimes, if you need to study or do other stuff. It's no big deal."

"But…" Preston sighed. "When Charles asks me do movie stuff, I can't say no, you know?"

"I know," Martin said.

"The pressure's making you hate it," Joe added.

Preston glanced at him. He stood a little straighter, picking himself up off the tree trunk. "What?"

"You use to like school, and I _know_ you like learning stuff." Joe grinned a little. "I also know you love being smarter than everyone else, otherwise you wouldn't have memorised the entire periodic table just to show off. So ignore the pressure. Remember why you found school fun in the first place."

"Oh, it's that simple?" Preston asked sarcastically. "Thanks for the input, Joe. This whole time the answer's been right in front of me." _Sorry. I know you're trying to help. I wish it_ was _that simple._

"Do your parents know all this?" Cary asked.

"Huh? Well – not really, I suppose. I doubt it. Even if I tried to tell them, I don't think they'd listen."

"You said you'd never tried talking to your parents. Doesn't that mean you gave up on talking to 'em from the start? About your middle school, about this, about how YOU actually feel." Cary pointed at him aggressively, finger quivering an inch from Preston's nose. "You gave up before you even tried, didn't you?"

Martin gave him a back-off sort of glance.

" _We'll_ try, then," Joe said. "We'll help. If your parents won't listen to you… maybe they can listen to us. It's worth a shot, isn't it?"

Preston didn't react, not visibly, but within, he discovered a strange sense of gratitude – a misshapen lump of emotion hiding in his chest. Faintly, his lips curved into a depressed half-smile. _Worth a shot_ , it seemed to say, _because I don't know what else I can do._

With a trickling, pitter-patter whisper and the low rumbles of distant thunder, it finally started to rain.

* * *

The house perched atop Derry Hill like an ugly, rotting spider: a shambling, multi-winged construction of century-old wood and tiles that, somehow, retained an unmistakable sense of grandeur. Of… purpose. It had been unoccupied for decades with boarded-up windows, vines reclaiming the decking, shingles missing from the roof, gazing over the town of Dayton with the gloomy aura of prosperous times long gone. Its two-storey visage sagged and crumbled, and if you had a reasonable imagination it almost appeared – especially at night, like now – to have a sort of _face_ : eyes of dark, shattered windows, a mouth of half-open doors, ears of peaked attics.

It certainly seemed that way to Sebastian Tally as he approached it along the path. The house called to him, urged him towards it, even as he wanted to escape somewhere very far away.

The young girl beside him wasn't feeling it. "God, Seb, why did you have to pick _me_?!"

 _Because I reckon you're pretty,_ he thought, but twelve-year-old boys weren't supposed to say that to their classmates. So instead, he muttered, "Ben walks too slow, Will talks too much, Beverley was too frightened, Richard forgot his glasses and he's literally blind as a bat. I thought it'd be fastest if I went with you."

"Hmph." The girl sniffed and folded her arms, but kept walking. "Wish you hadn't."

 _See? She's cool. She's not even scared._ "Are you… excited to join the Bloody Pirates?"

"Who cares, it's only a lame boys' club." Still, he heard a hint of excitement in her voice. "What I _don't_ get is why we have to do this stupid dare."

"It's like – an initiation thing. To prove that we're cool enough."

"Hmph." She sniffed again.

Seb's mind flashed back twenty minutes, standing in the secret clubroom with twenty other eager kids. _'Everyone picks a dare from the hat,'_ the Pirate leader said (wearing an eyepatch which made him _extra_ cool). ' _If you finish the dare tonight, you're in. If you don't finish it – you're a PUSSY.'_

Seb, unluckily, had picked a freaky one: steal one of Edward Derry's bullets from his desk in the old, abandoned Derry house. Edward had committed suicide thirty years ago (having gone _very_ insane for some reason or other), and legend had it that the spare bullets from his gun still lay untouched on the desk. Legend _also_ had it that Edward's ghost haunted the mansion, searching for children to murder.

 _Of course, that's stupid. Ghosts aren't real._ "Hey, Kat. Do you believe in ghosts?"

She was a couple of steps ahead and glanced over her shoulder. "Nope."

"Good," Seb replied. "Good." He was glad Katherine was in front of him; it meant he could stare without being noticed. They were, at first glance, very different. He was tall. She was shorter. He was too thin. Her weight was actually sensible. His face was birdlike, all bones and angles, probably sharp enough to sculpt marble with while hers was… softer, more rounded, with beautiful rosy cheeks. Dark hair fell messily across her back.

Closer to the mansion, the grass had overgrown the path and they trudged through it with stalks swishing against their jeans. The house was _big_ up close – there had to be fifty rooms inside. Maybe a hundred. Crickets sang hoarsely in the cool night air, the night-lights of Dayton twinkling past the far side of the hill. Barely-there puffs of mist pooled against the earth. Not a soul moved inside, however, and soon, they reached the front door.

Kat pinned him with an annoyed-kid glare. "I don't like you, and I'm only here because of you. So let's hurry up and get this over with," she said harshly.

Seb blushed. "Um… sure. I wanna get out of here too."

"Hmph."

"Hey, I was thinking…" _I was thinking, what if we get trapped in the house accidentally? Then we'd have to stick together, talk for a while, get to know each other…_ "It's nothing. Thanks for coming with me."

Kat stared at him suspiciously. "No problem. Are you gonna open that door or what?"

"It's probably locked, it might be better to climb in through a window." He walked quickly along the porch, searching for an entrance; the first few windows were boarded up but the third was invitingly exposed. "Here."

Seb gazed into the gloom. Old furniture loomed indistinctly, threadbare curtains concealing his view. _'No torches allowed,'_ the Pirate leader had said. _'Torches are for PUSSIES.'_ (A surprising number of things were for pussies, Seb had noticed). Instantly, the full meaning of what they were doing hit him like a ton of bricks: _we're going into the Derry house. WE'RE GOING INTO THE DERRY HOUSE! You're not supposed to go inside, even during the day, and at night there could be_ anything _—_

"Do you wanna go first?" he asked.

Kat shrugged. "Sure, if you're scared."

"I'm not really—"

"Whatever." She rolled her eyes and vaulted onto the windowsill, then dropped to the ground inside. Seb wiped his hands on his jeans, then followed, making sure he didn't get caught on any sharp edges.

It was _dark_ , in the house. Real dark. A silvery shaft of moonlight fell through the window but didn't reach more than a couple of metres inside. He could see a long, heavy table, perhaps a dozen chairs scattered around it, details emerging as his eyes slowly adjusted. A wiry chandelier dangled from the ceiling, reminding him of an enormous spider. A thin layer of mist had settled on the floorboards and swirled about his sneakers.

"Where's this bullet we're supposed to steal?" Kat asked, barely above a whisper.

"Upstairs, I think," he hissed back. "They said it was in the room at the far end of the hall. Edward's office."

"Why are we whispering?"

 _I feel like we should,_ Seb thought. "Dunno."

Kat shook her head. "Lead the way. You're the one who got us into this mess."

"That is true."

Seb gritted his teeth and began creeping towards the nearest doorway. Going first wasn't _all_ bad – it meant you didn't have to worry about things sneaking up behind you. He reached the doorway and peeked through it.

A hallway. The main hallway, probably, front door to his left. He turned and cautiously walked along the corridor, smelling wet plaster, rotting wallpaper, bug-riddled carpets. There was still lots of junk lying around. Clothes. Old newspapers. His eyes settled on a snowglobe, resting on a mantelpiece. High ceilings gave the place a cavernous, stately air, even as they sagged in the corners. _This would've been a nice place, once._

Footsteps!

Seb froze. He could've sworn he heard footsteps. Upstairs maybe.

"What's wrong?" Kat asked.

He glanced at the ceiling, and a thin trickle of dust fell from a gap in the wood, onto his nose. _Uh oh. UH OH._ _Somebody's up there!_

"It's probably mice," Kat said. "They must be everywhere in the walls. We get 'em in our roof sometimes."

"…Right. Right." He wiped the dust off before he sneezed. "Makes sense."

"Yeah."

Seb heard her take a deep, shuddering breath, which was strangely comforting. _I'm not the only scaredy-cat– she's just better at hiding it._

They moved further down the hallway. Other open doorways gaped emptily on either side, offering brief glimpses of kitchens, bathrooms, parlours. All emitted the same rancid stink; a mix of rotten milk and mould with a dash of decaying upholstery. Every now and then he heard the footsteps once more, a hint of something scuttling on the other side of the plaster. _You're not afraid. You're not afraid._ The words repeated incessantly in his mind. _You're not afraid._

… _But you ARE._ Sebastian realised he had no idea what Edward Derry looked like; an old guy with a hole in his head, probably. _I guess I'll know if we_ do _see his ghost_. He glanced behind him, saw Kat frown.

"What?"

"…Nothing."

"Then get on with it, you idiot."

They reached the end of the hallway, turned to the right and there – blissfully – were the stairs. A dozen steps, ascending into darkness. "Wish we had a torch," he murmured.

"Yeah." Kat snorted. "Torches are for—"

"Pussies?"

"I was going to say sensible people." She grinned briefly for the first time that night, and Seb felt something ache in his heart.

 _Come on. Focus._ He grabbed the railing and began making his way up, testing each step to make sure it was secure. Every movement resulted in a far-too-loud creak, the house trembling and settling around them. _I wonder, what was the last time anybody explored up here?… Probably the Bloody Pirates initiation_ last _year. And those kids survived, right?_ His feet scraped on plaster dust which had sifted down over decades, making fresh, pale tracks.

He arrived at top of the stairs. Seb crouched, peering into the shadows.

More junk. Still no ghosts. Squares of moonlight revealed broken windows, casting the landing in eerie silver.

"End of the hall, right?" Kat asked suddenly. The sound made him twitch.

"I think so."

"It has to be that, then." She pointed down the corridor to a heavy oaken door.

"Yeah, that's probably it." Seb tiptoed off the final step (which didn't do much to muffle the resulting creak). He shivered. The air felt icy, for some reason, and the mist was much thicker upstairs: a pale cloud, making the world slightly hazy. He ran his fingers through it and watched the tendrils swirl and dance round his fingers.

"Hey, Seb?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you…" Kat had a speculative look in her eyes. "You live on Mardsen Street, right?"

The question caught him off guard, unrelated as it was to creepy abandoned houses. "Yep, that's me. 170 Marsden Street."

"Do you wanna walk home with me after school on Monday? Cause, you know, my friends all live on the other side of town and it gets _real_ boring on my own."

"I – oh, wow. Um. Yeah, of course. Sure. Definitely." He coughed nervously.

"Good."

Conversation over. _Aaaah! She_ wants _to spend time with me? Maybe she thinks I'm cool. Does she think I'm cool? Wait, how does she know where I live?_

A finger prodded him in the back impatiently. "Keep walking."

"Sorry, sorry." Seb shook his head and trudged down the hallway, towards the imposing door at the end. More deserted chambers passed by to their right: bedrooms, studies, libraries, empty for decades. Edward Derry's ghost flitted through his imagination, darting from shadow to shadow, creeping up behind them with a skull dripping blood, battling with more pleasant thoughts of after-school walks. The door grew larger until suddenly it loomed before them.

Hurriedly, Seb grabbed the handle. It was dark, tarnished, ornately engraved. It didn't budge; the hinges had settled, bottom edge resting on the door jamb.

"I don't like this," Kat said suddenly. She'd wrapped her arms around her chest, shielding herself from the cold.

"Why? We're nearly done."

"I know, I know. It feels… eugh. Like we shouldn't be here."

"We're nearly done," he repeated. "And if we get in trouble, my dad can help."

"Your dad?"

"Yeah, he's a policeman." Seb gave the door a harder yank and suddenly the wood _screamed_ like a woman in pain – a sound that seemed to shoot through every part of his body at once. If Kat hadn't been there he probably would've peed himself but adrenaline made him grab hold and pull for all he was worth. "Aaah!"

 _Screech!_ The door flew open.

Behind it was an ordinary office: two chairs, a lamp, a bookcase, a desk.

Kat stepped closer, peering over his shoulder.

Sitting at the desk – Edward's desk – was a man. His head lolled to one side, one hand dangling against the floor, silhouetted against the starlight from the window.

"Seb," Kat whispered, voice filled with dread. " _Seb_."

His throat closed up, unable to make a sound. _That's… Edward. But it_ can't _be, he can't be here, they would've moved his body twenty years ago—_

Edward Derry's face was green. His eyes were puffed shut. His hands were swollen, ghastly. The black dots of flies crawled across his skin. A quarter of his skull had been blown away by a shotgun blast, the gun itself lying on the desk before him, bits of bone and brain spattering the wood. Three unused shells had rolled onto the floorboards. _There's the bullets,_ he thought idly. _That's what we have to steal._ Behind him Kat was hyperventilating, her breath hot on his ear.

"Seb," she said again.

Then she screamed.

And the scream disappeared. Seb whirled around just in time to see a long, muscular _blur_ come spearing through the darkness, wrap round Kat's chest and retreat down the hallway faster than his eyes could follow. Crashing, banging, a taut, slimy shape.

"KAT!"

The girl vanished, dragged into the shadows. He thought he heard ribs crack, scream cut short, fingernails scraping desperately against plaster.

"KAT! Hey, wait—"

Silence.

Seb turned. Edward Derry was gone, the chair empty.

Something snapped in his brain. _I have to get out of here, I have to run. The ghost is real, Edward's ghost is real, he was sitting right THERE and there's something else too – it took Kat. What was that? It took her. Took her where?..._

 _You have to get out of the house._ The thought somehow reached his legs and he took a few, tottering steps, away from that awful room and the awful spectre inside. Then, another thought stopped him. A feeling.

Guilt.

 _You have to help her, Seb. She's only here 'cause of you._ Her words echoed through his mind once more, dripping with annoyance: ' _God, Seb, why did you have to pick me?!_ ' _I picked her because I was selfish and I wanted to talk to her alone and now she's—_

—gone.

_You have to run._

_You gotta help her._

_You have to run, find the others._

_You gotta help her. What if it's too late?_

With a guttural scream, Seb sprinted towards the stairs. "Kat!" he yelled. "Kat, where are you?!" Her path was a chasm through the mist, rapidly refilled. No reply but the constant slithering in the walls, the sound of tiny, skittering feet. Then, a loud _crash_ from downstairs. "Kat!"

He ran through the moonlight, flew down the stairs three at a time. Seb swung round the balustrade, nearly tripped and fell the last couple of metres, managed to find his footing and crashed heavily into the floorboards. Looked left and right along the main hall. Dark. Empty. Shattered glass from broken light fixtures littered the carpet. _That's new, that wasn't there before. She must've come this way._

 _You should run. You should run, escape, tell people to never come back – NO._ He shook his head, psyching himself up. _You're the only person who can rescue her._ He forced himself onwards and jogged down the corridor, called her name when a figure suddenly emerged from one of the black, shadowy doorways.

Kat stood there, grinning in her dinosaur t-shirt and jeans, apparently no worse for wear.

"Hey," he began. "I thought you—"

She stepped towards him and Seb stopped in his tracks. Her eyes glittered for just a moment in the moonlight: they were silver, rimmed with red, blank as washed blackboards. There was no human thought or feeling in them. Eyes are the windows of the soul, people said. If so, these windows revealed an empty room.

 _It's not her,_ he realised. _It's not her, it's not real. Another ghost._

Seb scrunched his eyes shut and darted forwards. "Go away!" he shouted. There was a violent _hiss_ in response; an odd sensation, like being splashed by a wave without getting wet, then a piercing ache in his skull. He kept running.

When he looked, the figure was gone. _I knew it. I knew it wasn't her_. "Kat? Where are you?" He took a couple more steps. The front door of the house approached and he still couldn't see her. But… there was some debris on the ground, a jagged patch of slightly blacker shadow that looked a lot like a—

Seb was very surprised when the ground exploded beneath him.

 _CRASH!_ Floorboards buckled, carpet rising in a wave. Splinters burst around him and he was thrown into the air like a doll, flailing for a handhold till a long gelatinous whip erupted from the shadows and wrapped tightly round his stomach. It felt cold, deathly cold, the force making him gasp—

"Aaah!"

The tentacle dragged him down, _down_ into the hole it had made, deeper into the earth. Seb's mouth was abruptly filled with dust, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the damp, wet clay. For a second he blacked out; his lungs ached. The tentacle whipped back and forth, following a violently curving shaft, squeezing him so strongly it felt as if his heart would burst, endless, disorienting. He couldn't tell how long it took but – eventually – he smacked into solid ground.

The thump startled him into wakefulness. He opened his eyes, squinted, caught the barest glimpse of some sort of cavern. Faint green luminescence at the far end. And above him… were stars. The _wrong_ stars. It didn't make sense. He moaned, pushing through the dull, painful ache, trying to get up but the tentacle clutched him close. He'd never been so afraid. Not even when he got tired swimming back from the island off Prairie Beach and thought he was going to drown.

"…Seb?"

He twisted his neck, looking behind him. Kat was there, lying in the dirt, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, blood speckling her shirt.

"Hey." He tried to smile. "I found you."

"I wish you hadn't. You should've run." Her face was sad.

 _I couldn't,_ he thought miserably, _I had to try._ Slowly, inevitably, the tentacle began to squeeze. He struggled uselessly. There was a jerk, a crack of bone and he couldn't even breath to cry out.

" _Stop! Please!_ " Not his voice. " _I'm begging you!"_

Blackness filled his vision, blissful relief. His limbs twitched in the fog.

The last thing he knew was the creature hugging him tight, tight, ever tighter, Kat's face screaming in the dark.

* * *

"Are we in the right spot?" Martin asked anxiously.

"Yep," Joe replied. "She said meet her at the church entrance, 9PM sharp."

"Did she know there was a kids' night on?"

"Probably. It _does_ make it less suspicious to be here," Preston said. "I wasn't looking forward to sneaking out again without a decent reason."

"A kids' night isn't a decent reason."

"Uh – yes it is. Can you _see_ how much fun they're having?"

They peered through the well-lit windows of the church. More than fifty elementary-schoolers were packed inside, laughing and rushing between a series of activities. Books and board-games were scattered across the pews, a projector playing cartoons up front.

"So much fun," Rachel murmured.

There was a throaty rumble as a new car pulled into the parking lot – a low, rosewood-red Chrysler. Two adults stepped out. One was a young, blonde-haired woman whom Joe recognised. The other was a soldier, thin, with dark skin. The soldier waited by the car, facing the road while the woman scanned the area.

She noticed the group of teenagers slouching by the church. Narrowed her eyes. Quickly, she stalked over to them. "Kids," she muttered darkly, giving them the once-over.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Charles asked defensively.

"It means that fate of the fucking world rests on the shoulders of a group of kids. Not great." Her voice was sharp, a thick European accent. "My boyfriend is going to keep watch. What's the deal with the people inside?"

"We thought you knew," Joe said.

"Nuh-uh."

"Hi, by the way – I'm Joe. I'm the one who called you. Thanks for helping me out and stuff."

"Not a problem… yet, anyway." She grimaced. "If the church is in use, I guess we'll have to find someplace else to sit, like a group of dirty spies skulking in the dark."

"There's a garden out back," Cary offered. "All the seniors hide in it when they're smoking drugs."

" _Perfect_. Lead the way."

They traipsed around the side of the building, unsure of exactly what was happening or how the two mysterious groups could help each other. Laughter and warmth and pale yellow light spilled from the stained-glass windows.

The garden was, as promised, quite dark, hedges and trees forming a secluded natural clearing past the rear of the church. A set of tiered stone benches had created a small amphitheatre. The woman turned to face them as they sat, a fierce glint in her eyes.

"So," she said. "What do you want to know?"

* * *

' _The Defence Advanced Research Projects Agency, or DARPA, has long been involved in unusual projects on the cutting edge of military research. For example, take 'DARPA Silent Talk' – a program attempting to identify EEG patterns for words and transmit these for convert communications, more commonly known as 'telepathy'. Take their controversial genetic engineering programs, or their remote-controlled insects, or their XOS powered exoskeletons, or their experimental spaceplanes. DARPA is a hive for sci-fi style projects with the stated mission of creating 'technological surprise', and because they operate out of the public eye, many have wondered what occurs behind their (very thick) closed doors.'_

**—A COSMOS magazine article, originally published in 1989**

* * *

The group stared at her, eyes wide. "So many things," Martin whispered. They'd been stumbling around in the dark for so long that the chance to get some answers came as a surprise.

"Who are you?" Joe asked.

The woman turned to him. "…That's your question?"

"Only the first one," he said defensively. "We need to make sure you aren't evil."

"Of course I'm not evil! This isn't some elaborate trick! I actually do want to help you, because…" She frowned. "…perhaps we can assist one another. My name is Mirka Soderling. I'm a researcher from Sweden."

"Oh, like ABBA," Charles said.

"Yes, ABBA is from Sweden. What's your point?"

"Nothing!" He blanched. "My sister likes ABBA, that's all."

"Well." Mirka rolled her eyes. "I'm glad that's been established. Anyway, I work with DARPA."

"The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency," Preston said.

"Correct. The agency is broadly responsible for developing technologies for military use. I am somewhat… indirectly employed, but am part of several recent programs. One is the Panoptes project – a successor to Helios and Argus. You may have heard of them."

Joe glanced towards the front of the church. He could see the dark-skinned soldier still standing in the carpark, silhouetted by a streetlight – _she said he was a friend?_ – but the rest of the area seemed deserted. _What if this is a trap? Too late now. Wouldn't make sense, anyway._

"We've definitely encountered the Argus project," Alice said. "It appeared to be the driving force behind everything, going back decades."

"Indeed. Helios was the first attempt at extraterrestrial contact. Argus came later, after World War 2, and… it's done. Finished. _You_ made sure of that by freeing their one live specimen." She met Joe's eyes, a strange respect in her gaze. "Help can come from the unlikeliest, most unqualified of places. It's hard to believe a group of children could succeed where so many others failed."

Cary held up a hand. "Hey, lady! We're not _children_."

"How old are you, then? Eleven?"

"FOURTEEN."

"My mistake. You are _quite_ small." Cary bristled. Charles pushed him back. Mirka looked at her watch, glowing pale green in the darkness. "I can't be here long; otherwise they'll get suspicious. Let's see if I can manage a five-minute history lesson."

* * *

"It began in South America," she said slowly, "with a discovery in 1880: an unusual metal object buried in the rainforest. The archaeologists who found it were looking for ancient temples, but happened to stumble upon something much more unique."

"What was it?" Alice asked curiously.

"They didn't know. A hundred years later, we _still_ don't know. Possibly an advanced power generator, but that's an educated guess. Over subsequent decades we found more objects – all similarly advanced, all similarly mysterious – in a dozen locations across the world. Mostly, they were discovered by chance, so it's difficult to confirm how many exist. I've seen three in person and it's believed there are twelve total, owned by various governments and institutions. The most recent was found five years ago in Mauritius by a particularly lucky fisherman."

"Twelve…" Preston narrowed his eyes. Beside him, Rachel had the sense to start taking notes.

"Again, nobody knows what these objects are or what they do, except that they are machines – probably – constructed by a benefactor vastly more advanced than us. They'd think of our fighter jets as children's toys."

"Why 'benefactor?'" Alice asked. "Were the objects supposed to help us somehow?"

"Oh, I don't know if they were _supposed_ to." Mirka smiled faintly. "They certainly will, however, if we can understand them. It'd jump society forwards by a hundred years. Energy generation, propulsion, computer technology, medical equipment…"

"But they're definitely not from Earth," Martin said.

"I very much doubt it. Carbon-14 dating – do you know what that is? Radioactive isotopes, blah blah, look it up – carbon dating places their age at several million years before we invented the wheel." Even though she was relatively young, Mirka had a friendly way of storytelling that reminded Joe of his better teachers. Her eyes had a piercing glint to them, flicking from person to person, taking in every detail. "Then, the interesting thing is… we began seeing strange activity at these locations. Unexplained incidents, sightings, encounters, every five or ten years. Random, yet connected."

"Twelve!" Preston said again. He unzipped his backpack and removed a set of photographs, bound by an elastic band. "Remember? We stole these from the base. Twelve images." He laid them out, barely visible in the glow of the church's windows.

Mirka scanned their scribbled captions. "Congo, 1890. Russia, 1908. Peru… Australia, Philippines, Germany, Antarctica, Nigeria, Mauritius, USA, Japan. Yes, that's the list." She glared at Joe. "So THIS is what you were doing, snooping around the air force base."

"…Sort of?"

"Then you're very brave – and extremely stupid." She shook her head, her expression hidden by shadow. "Honestly, you should be happy you're still alive. Regardless, the number '12' appears frequently in our material."

"It makes sense," Preston said. "Base 12 is much more sensible numerically than the base 10 which humans use."

"Okay, I take that back – _you_ might be a little smart," Mirka said grudgingly. "Is there a map in that backpack? And a pen?"

Preston rummaged for the requested items, sticking his head into the bag like a rabbit searching its burrow. Rachel knelt down and peered at the Japan photo: a picture of a classroom, a crater dug from the floor. It was newer than the others. _'Inaba incident, 1978. Object #007 related. 35.11°N, 113.86°E.'_ Hints of fog streaked across the image, obscuring details.

Mirka took Preston's geography textbook and laid it on the grass, flipping to a world map. Quickly, she crossed off locations in red pen. "This is a map of every incident and artefact we've encountered. The trouble is, it's difficult to separate genuine incidents – like the Tunguska crash or the Manila sighting – from rumours and white noise, especially so because of the phenomenon's global nature. If governments would just _cooperate_ on these things like we do in academia, instead of insisting on secrecy…" She sighed, scratching her neck. "Only a hundred people in the world have seen this information, so PLEASE keep it to yourselves. Otherwise I'm in trouble."

"It's a pattern," Joe murmured. The marks on the map formed an uneven chain of connected circular shapes, stretching across the flattened globe. It reminded him of an 'infinity' symbol. "And we're certain this is aliens." _Because it's a lot, if true._

"Relatively, although we weren't certain until Argus. Finding a live specimen was… helpful, in many ways. It's a fifty-year project, so I've only encountered a tiny segment, but we try and remove reasonable doubts." Mirka placed her hands on her thighs, leaning over the map. "Then we come to the present day. 'Panoptes' is an overarching term for classified research into extraterrestrial communication. It's been relevant for twenty years or so, driven by the artefacts and the unidentified presences we noticed afterwards. Argus was one aspect of that; a much more recent one is 'Monstrum.' And yes, attempting to contact aliens isn't necessarily a _good_ idea, but curiosity is a powerful motivator. Optimistically, we have everything to gain. Pessimistically, we have everything to lose. Flip a coin."

"Not reassuring," Martin said under his breath.

"Obviously, we made contact with one alien species – whom you encountered in person – but we've interacted with another, also."

"So there's more aliens," Charles said flatly.

"Many more, possibly."

"But we could barely handle _one!_ Are they friendly?"

"Good question." Mirka shrugged. "We know very little about them. Ten years ago we began broadcasting high-power microwave signals at Tau Ceti, then to a few other stars nearby. You can spot them on the horizon." She pointed southward to a faint star cluster, low above the trees. "We only ever encountered _one_ of the Argus species and never managed to discover where it came from. That leads me to believe it was acting alone, or that the rest of the species is very far away. The Monstrum group, however, is closer."

"How do you know?" Cary asked.

"We got a reply. Light only travels so fast, which limits their range, assuming they're bound by the same physical laws. Unfortunately it was a _coded_ reply, one we couldn't decipher." Mirka sighed. "To be expected. We'd only received two transmissions from Monstrum until a couple of days ago. The meteor showers created a flurry of signals – as if somebody shot a bunch of ping-pong balls into space, and now they're all bouncing around for anyone to intercept. We hope nobody noticed. It's essentially static if you don't know what you're looking for."

"…Ah," Alice said quietly.

Charles tapped his foot anxiously. "What if told you," he began, "that we might have… caused… the meteor shower."

Mirka stared at them. "How?"

"Oh, no big deal. Just some fiddling. With an alien machine. That we found."

"That you _found?_ " She clamped her mouth shut. "How did you— son of a _bitch!_ Why you? Why would they— Why would YOU _—_ "

"It was sort of an accident, if that makes it better?" Joe added.

"Oh, LOADSbetter. You could've invited them straight to us!"

"Slow down," Alice said. "Invited _how_?"

Mirka ran a hand through her hair, exhaling loudly. "Look. The machine you found could've been anything – what possessed you to 'fiddle' with it? Sure, it _might_ not have done any harm, but it could've sent a broadcast to the whole damn galaxy or god knows what else. There's a reason we don't give guns to chimpanzees, for example." She paced back and forth, thinking, then abruptly sat on the steps. "You understand the feeling of being watched?"

Joe felt a prickle on the back of his neck, and brushed it away nervously. _Only the wind._

"I've had that feeling for years," Mirka continued, "and not from Earth. From the sky." She pointed upward. "I think something's been watching us for a long, long time, and they're only now preparing to get involved. When you set the Argus alien free, it fled as fast as it could – which produced a very distinctive energy signal. When you played with your alien machine, that's another signal. You have basically been attracting whatever's out there by putting up fucking Earth-sized signs with 'look at me!' in neon letters!"

"Oh," Martin said.

"Oops." Charles looked a little pale.

"Yes, oops." Mirka glared at him. "I understand that you're kids and you want to help, but if this goes badly there is a _lot_ you're responsible for. THINK before you act, please. No more fiddling."

It was strange, how perspective could shift. They'd assumed they were doing good by freeing the alien – _and we were_ , Joe thought – acting on instinct, doing what seemed right. Then they'd tried to _keep_ doing it but the story kept getting bigger. _It's gone on for a hundred years all over the world, and the only thing most people hear is an occasional crazy rumour._

"Anyway, the meteor showers might have been cover for some kind of landing – a very shiny, very large distraction. It's being determined."

"A landing… as in an invasion?" Martin asked worriedly.

"You tell me. We have no idea what Monstrum are, or want. The Argus alien likely had a 'purpose' too and simply happened to crash-land. My predecessors never managed to divine its intentions; perhaps it wanted to contact us. Perhaps it was simply observing. Either way, it fell into an unfortunate set of hands." She gave back Preston's geography book. "And now, perhaps, so have we. The meteors have thrown my entire division into chaos because if it _was_ unnatural it is unbelievably frightening. Do you understand? We're trying to solve this before it becomes public."

"How long?" Alice asked.

"Nobody's certain. I'm working on it along with many very intelligent people, some nice, some… not so nice, as you know. Regardless, be careful, because—"

Mirka's watch alarm sounded, beeping in the night. Joe twitched.

"Time's up," she muttered. "I can't be seen talking to you." She stood and looked towards the carpark; her soldier-friend beckoned impatiently.

"Wait wait wait," Cary interrupted, "hold up. You said a lot of stuff but I don't know how much it actually helps. What are we supposed to do now?"

"I'm not your Santa Claus or Father Christmas or whatever you call him," Mirka said patiently. "You wanted information, I've given you information. For now that's all I can do."

"But—"

"Look, here's your summary: people found alien objects. We started seeing incidents. That implies somebody's watching. We tried to talk. One group talked back. That is scary. To be continued. Try not to make things worse in the future."

"Yeah yeah, I get it," Cary said forcefully, "but it isn't OUR fault – it's the government's for being such dicks in the first place!"

Mirka raised an eyebrow. "Yes, well, take that up with them."

"And why talk to us in the first place?"

"Because…" She paused, a little irritated. "Because you're wildcards, as you've so ably demonstrated, and when you cause all manner of chaos it makes my job easier. It's very difficult to stay hidden, especially from a certain pale-faced bastard, but I've been trying to share as much as I can with different people – back home, in Australia, in Japan – so we can work together. That way, if something happens to me, it doesn't end. We can still win."

"So how _do_ we win?" Charles asked. "How do we stop Pan… Pano—"

"Panoptes?"

"Yeah."

"You don't," the woman said tersely. "Panoptes itself isn't evil. The military isn't evil. The problems stem from certain… aspects. For example, DARPA had a GM division – genetic modification – and I heard some horrible stories before they were shut down. For now, I'd concentrate on staying alive and figuring out what the heck Monstrum are up to."

Rachel paused mid-sentence, then continued writing. Mirka looked at their faces. Spread before her was a mixture of confusion and uncertainty, five boys, two girls, all so _young._ She sighed. _They'll listen. They're doing their best._ "Do you remember James Woodward?"

"Dr Woodward? Yeah, sure," Charles said. "We think he's dead."

The casual way he said it made her sad, in a tiny way. "James was one of the first to welcome me to this country. He was a good man, and he always liked teaching. Me, I never could be a teacher, but he _wanted_ to be. That was his love. Unfortunately, he couldn't resist interfering." She paused, selecting her words. "What he saw within the Argus project affected him. Cliché it might be, but his heart was his downfall. He saw what they were doing to that creature and tried to help; he was the only one among us who really understood it, I think, as much as it _could_ be understood. But James didn't want to destroy the project. He wanted to _change_ it. Change it from the inside, from something dark and evil into something good to benefit us all. That didn't work, so he tried stopping it by force."

 _Change,_ Joe thought. _I guess it's hard to change the world_. _I don't even like changing the posters in my bedroom._ He remembered Old Man Woodward's face, bloody, desperate, _scary_ , staring at them from the ruined pickup as air force soldiers raced towards them. _He gave up everything._

"As a species, we often take the wrong approach to the unfamiliar," Mirka said. "Our most important chance yet approaches, and I want to make sure we do it right."

"Us too," Charles said.

"Creepy alien friends are objectively better than creepy alien enemies," Preston added.

"I'm glad we agree." The woman smiled humourlessly. "Enough touchy-feely garbage. I'll contact you if anything earth-shattering occurs; call me if there are huge problems on your end, and I mean _huge._ Don't do anything stupid." She walked away along the side of the church, not looking back. Joe thought he heard a muttered _'fucking children!'_ as she receded but couldn't quite be sure.

Rachel put her pen away, deep in thought. Joe scratched his chin and looked up at the twinkling dark. He couldn't decide if things were more or less clear. Beside him, Cary attempted a handstand next to a rosebush.

* * *

The call had come direct from the Dayton police department: _"We think it's one of yours_ ," the voice had said. So now, Jack was traipsing through the pine forest, towards the hint of yellow crime scene tape in the distance. Nervousness bubbled hot in his stomach. He stepped over a branch, leaves crackling. _"It's a kid. We think it's one of yours."_

The tape sagged in motionless air, wound around a set of tree trunks. Three Dayton police officers waited at the perimeter, staring glumly into the middle distance. Jack gave them a quick nod, then ducked underneath.

In the centre was the body.

Jack felt the blood leave his face, air growing thin in his chest. "God, don't do this to me." He walked forwards in a daze, focusing on the small crumpled shape, the simple act of putting one foot before the other. It was a boy. _Half_ a boy. The torso was there, the head as well, but the legs ended in jagged strips half-way up the thigh. The body was surrounded by upturned earth, a region of flat and barren emptiness as if the forest itself had fled from the awful sight.

He closed his eyes, took a breath, then opened them. Kept walking. "Come on," he whispered. It felt like it took minutes to reach the victim. Instincts fought him every step of the way.

Deputy Milner was there already, kneeling silently on the ground. They exchanged a glance. The boy lay face down in the dirt. His clothes were ripped in a dozen places, revealing fleshy scratches, covered in grime. _He's thin,_ Jack noted distantly. _Brown hair._ His mind had sealed itself in some walled-off corner, keeping its distance. _Chest looks funny, like it's been crushed. Blood. Blunt-force trauma._ Slowly, Jack sidestepped to check the boy's face.

"Oh Christ," he said aloud. "No, no, no."

"What is it?" Milner asked.

"I _know_ him – he lives in Lillian." The realisation shot through his veins like ice. "He's Tally's kid."

Milner stared, a sickly sheen to his face. "…What?"

"That's Tally's kid! He's a few years younger than Joe. He's been to my god-damn house. _Christ._ "

"Sebastian?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's definitely him." Jack took one last glance at the ashen, lifeless face – teeth bared in eternal pain – then abruptly turned away. He shoved his hands into his pockets. The air was no longer fresh; it was suffocating. The forest rose skyward in the distance, hugging the surface of a craggy hill and at the top he saw a big old house like something out a fairytale. _One of those fairytales where the evil witch wins._ "Shit!"

"Calm down, Jack. Shut it off."

"Shut it off?! You can't just—"

"This is a case now. Like it or not, we're working a case." Milner sounded calm, though his tanned complexion was definitely paler than usual. "I never really met the kid. Tell me about him."

 _He's right. He's right and you know it. You're supposed to be the Sheriff, so act like it._ "Seb. Sebastian Tally. Eleven years old, I think. Goes to school with my boy Joe." He spread his hands. "I met him a few times. Seemed like a nice kid, takes after his father." Jack stepped back. The way the body just _ended_ still made him want to scream. _Don't focus on it. Look at his face._

"He the type to get in trouble?"

"Milner, this is more than 'trouble'—"

"Answer the question."

"No. No, I don't think so."

"Okay. Well, we're gonna have to move the body. Check for tracks before the rain comes in," Milner said gruffly. "Does Tally know?"

"Tally? I…" He blinked.

"What's wrong?"

"He's probably on his way, he got the call too." _Imagine if it was Joe, lying there_. "We have to stop him before he arrives—" Jack saw a flicker of movement at the police barrier, someone ducking under the tape, the Dayton deputies stepping aside. He squinted at the navy blue figure. "…Christ, it's him!"

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, I'd spot that stupid moustache a mile off!" he barked. Jack began walking towards the approaching figure, then broke into a run. He called to Milner. "Cover it up!" He hurried through the forest as Milner went to find a blanket, placing it over the body. He shivered. _That's him, alright. This keeps getting worse._ He intercepted Tally twenty metres from the scene.

The other cop's eyes were bright, glittering. On edge. "What is it?"

 _He knows,_ Jack realised _. Seb didn't come home last night and he's made the connection and he doesn't want it to be true._ "Ben, you can't be here. Get back."

"Jack, let me see. What've you found. Let me see." His voice was hoarse, insistent. He stepped to the side. Jack blocked him.

"Ben, get back. Get away from here."

"Why?"

"You don't want to—"

Tally darted forwards, started to run. A couple of police from the barrier were on their way to assist, Milner getting to his feet with arms outstretched. _'Ben! Stop!'_ Jack leapt after him and managed to grab his shoulder, pulled him into a bear-hug, held him tight as he struggled to escape. The body was a blot of shadow on the forest floor, Tally turning towards it, Jack trying to push him back. _Christ, he's strong._

"Those are his clothes, Jack!" he yelled desperately.

"Alright, alright. Let's—"

"Those are his clothes! I can see 'em – they're Seb's clothes!"

Milner came up behind and seized Tally's arms and together they dragged him away, boots kicking at the dirt, half-carrying him. He was nearly strong enough for the both of them. One hand reached futilely for the boy. "Seb!..." The voice echoed through the forest, face twisted in anguish. Jack clenched his jaw, focused on the sagging line of tape, trying to shut out a newly-broken heart.

* * *

"We should tell somebody about this," Rachel said for the third time.

"Who – your dad?" Cary asked derisively.

"It'd be a good start!"

They stood in the school carpark as the final bell echoed around them. It was starting to get chillier as summer faded into autumn, kids huddling in their jackets as a fierce breeze whipped across the face of the main building. Windows rattled, the flags on the roof cracking and snapping. ' _School Swimming Day Next Friday!'_ the main noticeboard announced.

"Mirka told us to keep a low profile," Joe said. "We should listen to her."

"My dad can help us. He'll listen, and he can take the army out of the equation. Make it so we don't have to worry about them."

Martin nodded uncertainly. "She has a point – it would make things less dangerous."

"Or it'd make things _more_ dangerous because they'll know exactly what we're doing!" Charles retorted. "They'll have all the info they need to lock us away forever."

"My father won't let that happen."

"I'm sure your dad's great, but we've never met him," Charles said firmly.

Rachel narrowed her eyes. "You'd never met that woman from last night yet you decided to trust _her_."

"Guys! Cool it, we're arguing in circles." Alice shook her head. "Mirka provides _proof_ the government covered things up, on top of the fact that aliens aren't just a recent discovery. Proof is important. We can act with proof."

"We did promise to go public," Martin murmured.

"But we can't yet!" Charles said. "We need more evidence, and we need to work out the best way to do it because as soon as we say ANYTHING the army's gonna come down on us like a ton of bricks. It has to be airtight."

"That isn't the point," Rachel said.

"Fine. What am I missing." He folded his arms.

"Rachel's saying we should only tell certain people who we trust," Alice said. "Like her dad, to try and get the army on our side so if things _do_ go bad we've got one less enemy to worry about. That's sensible. If it helps, I say go for it."

"Yeah, but we shouldn't count on the government," Joe said quietly. "Not after what they've done. Not ever."

"I'm with him," Cary grumbled. "Stuff 'em – no offence to your dad."

Rachel shrugged.

"Look, we've spent the entire time _running_ from those assholes. Even if one or two dudes like us it's not gonna stop the rest."

"Who's for it, then?" Charles asked.

Rachel raised her hand, followed by Alice. "Might as well," Martin muttered.

"And me, Joe and Cary are against it. Preston, what's your opinion?"

The teenager looked up mid-daydream. "Huh? I wasn't listening, leave me out of it."

"Dude, you're _surprisingly_ useless sometimes," Charles replied. He turned to Rachel. "Please don't tell him," he begged. "Please. Not until we think about it, at least."

"You don't underst— ugh." She glared at him. It was the first time Joe had seen her visibly frustrated. "Okay. But you have a useful resource here and you _aren't_ using it. My father's helped me before."

"I know, I know, but – not yet. Just wait a few more days."

"…Fine."

"Thanks." Charles smiled nervously. "Now, time for other thing. Preston?"

"What?" He twitched. "What? I wasn't listening."

" _God_ , you're the worst. Cary, grab his arms."

"Hey! Hey, what are you doing."

"Nothing."

"Then why are you—"

"Mr Mills, please come with us," Cary said calmly. He pinned Preston's wrists behind his back. "You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and _will_ be used against you. You have the right to speak to a lawyer dude. You have the right to give me all your chocolate. If you can't afford a lawyer then Joe'll probably have to do it, and he's crap at arguing so you don't want that. Please give me all your chocolate. Please." He grinned toothily. "Do you understand your rights?"

"No!"

"Too bad."

* * *

Rise crouched behind a bench, waiting for the trucks to pass. Her head hurt; darkness pulsed on the edges of her vision, clearing whenever she blinked as if she were three seconds from fainting. It'd been like that ever since she'd escaped, staggering away from the caverns beneath the school and the hissing, thrashing creatures.

The second truck drove past a few metres from her hiding spot. At least the fog made it easier to hide. She took a deep breath, felt the dampness swirl through her lungs. Tail-lights vanished into the mist. _Stay alert. You can make it._

Otherwise, the street was deserted. Plastic bags tumbled lazily in the breeze, sun shining weakly above. In fact, the whole of Inaba seemed abandoned – she hadn't seen a single living soul apart from the occasional military patrol, and she'd given those a wide berth. _After all, they did try to shoot me._

She checked both ways, then crossed the street. There was a convenience store on the other side, its shelves stocked with junk food. Her stomach rumbled. _How long was I unconscious? It's surprisingly difficult to get the date without a calendar – long enough for this place to become a ghost town… but not quite long enough to die. Perhaps everybody was evacuated._ The silence was eerie. Somewhere, a loose shutter swung in the wind, banging rhythmically against a window frame.

The store was locked, the sign flipped to its 'We're Closed!' side. Rise pressed her face against the glass, staring at the food inside.

 _Sorry._ She picked up a loose paving stone from the sidewalk and hefted it over her shoulder. It was heavier than she expected, but with an awkward grunt she managed to throw it at the closest window. _Crack!_ The glass shattered, scattering inside. Abruptly, she leaned forwards, almost falling as the blackness filled her vision. She was blind for a second before it retreated once more. She gasped for breath. _I don't know if those… things made me sick, or if I'm just really, really hungry. Either way I need to eat._

She stepped over the broken window, entering the gloomy store. Consuming something perishable was probably risky so she grabbed a few chip packets from the nearest shelf, then a lukewarm ice tea from the fridge. Her fingers fumbled at the seal, crackling as she tore it open.

"Mmmph." Fried potato had never tasted so good. She stuffed a handful into her mouth, nearly choking on the burst of flavour, managed to chew and wash it down with a mouthful of peach tea. She sank to the floor, leaning against the fridge. Her dishevelled reflection stared at her from silvered tiles. _If only Yosuke could see me now – he'd probably dump me on the spot. Shit, I hope he isn't worried._

_Who am I kidding, he's probably mobilised the whole army to look for me. Staying calm was never his strong point. If only I could find the stupid date!_

Then she heard voices. Rise froze mid-chew.

"The Americans found something. A live specimen."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I overheard the Captain talking about it."

Two voices. She could hear footsteps on the road outside. _Must be a patrol._

"He thinks they've made contact already."

"Doing better than us, then."

"Mmm. Somehow, they're always one step ahead. Like they knew it was coming." A pause. "Actually, we do have one advantage."

"…Better food?"

"No, the code – because _we_ talked first. They never figured out it was based on Japanese—"

"Wait." The voices stopped. "The window's broken."

Rise twitched. The chips slowly turned to mush in her mouth.

"Probably just some kids," the other voice said eventually. "They're gone now. Nobody's left."

"If you say so."

The patrol continued down the street. Rise let out a sigh. _Far out, I've had enough bullshit for one year. I NEED to get out of this town before it kills me. Their little talk was interesting, though._ "Very interesting," she whispered. _Okay, you've got food now, so THINK, because you need a plan and you need one fast._

_Step one: Leave the country. Disappointing, but I need to lay low till I'm no longer on somebody's hit list._

_Step two: Should probably call Yosuke before he goes insane._

_Step zero: To leave I'll need money. Get it fast in case they decide to freeze your account._

_Step three: Find out what the_ fuck _is going on._

_Step four: Write an amazing story about this and win a Pulitzer prize. The end._

Steps zero, one and two seemed relatively achievable, so she crept to the cashier's counter. A chunky black phone sat the desk. "Who to call, who to call…" One of the myriad posters taped to the store's walls was an advertisement for a travel agent, which felt like a good start. She dialled the number.

A young woman answered, her tone far too chirpy for Rise's current mood. " _Bebop Travel Agency, how may I help you?"_

"Hi. I was wondering what the date is today?"

_"Umm… the tenth. Tenth of September."_

_Three days._ "Thank you. Would I be able to book a flight? And can I pay via my bank account details?"

 _"Yes and yes! Where would you like to go?_ "

* * *

They waited on Preston's front porch, crouching in the twilight. He seemed nervous. "I don't think this is a good idea," he whispered.

"It can't be that bad," Martin replied. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"…My parents dismiss this situation as completely ridiculous and nothing changes?"

"Yeah, exactly. No big deal."

Joe shrugged. It was Charles' job to do most of the talking, with Joe present for 'moral support.' _Telling his parents how he feels is the first step – that's what we can help with. Where it goes from there… well, hopefully he'll be happier._

"Ready?" Joe asked.

"Nope."

Preston bit his lip and opened the door, and together they walked inside.

* * *

Rachel walked down the long white hallway, her father by her side, and wondered if she was doing the Right Thing. A pair of soldiers marched by in the other direction. Military bases were 24-hour operations.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To people that can help," her father replied.

"Okay."

 _I_ am _right,_ she thought fiercely, silencing her doubts _. The others don't understand. We can get help here and we'll_ need _help to deal with whatever's coming. They tried doing it on their own and nearly died in a fiery hailstorm. The trouble is, they won't listen – which means I have to do this alone._ Separating the world into 'I' and 'them' was unfortunate but that's how it usually was: her, and them. It was hard to get people to understand. Even Charles never would. _I hope he won't be too angry._

She'd told her father about everything that afternoon while the others had gone to Preston's house. Her dad had taken it impressively well; after all, he'd known most of it thanks to his CIA job. Certain important details were new, though, like the fact that the government had already exchanged messages with the aliens, or that the reason for most of their problems was a group of teenagers who knew enough to turn the world upside-down. ' _We're on the same side',_ her dad had said. ' _If you come clean with the military I'm sure we can help you. Perhaps you can help us, too.'_

They came to a pair of thick steel doors deep within the complex, their structure reminiscent of a bank vault. Her dad unlocked the right-hand entrance and the door swung smoothly open, revealing a large, dim room.

"After you," he said, smiling encouragingly.

She stepped inside. It was a laboratory, filled with tables, experimental apparatus, bottles of chemicals. Blackboards lined the walls, cables dangling from the ceiling to form a strange web of interconnected machinery.

At the far end of the room, four people waited. Rachel examined them as she approached.

The first was a middle-aged man best described as 'average' – round face, medium height, the kind of person you'd ignore in a crowd. He, oddly, appeared to be in charge. The two next to him were a man and a woman, both officers in uniform. The final member of the group towered over the others. He was wearing civilian clothes – a plain black suit and hat – hands clasped behind his back. His face was hidden by shadow and no matter the angle, Rachel couldn't make out any features. His skin was extremely pale. She tried not to stare.

For some reason, he made her uneasy.

Her father led her over to the group. The nondescript man stepped forwards, smiling warmly, brown eyes bright and alert. "Hello there."  
"This is Lieutenant Forman," her father said.

"Hi," Rachel murmured. _If he's only a Lieutenant, why are the others taking orders from him? It isn't a very high rank._

"I've heard a lot about you," Forman said pleasantly. "Your father is very complimentary."

Ryan smiled. "It's hard not to be."

"I wouldn't know. I don't have children. I do, however, have to eat dinner, so why don't you tell me why we're here?"

"Of course."

Rachel stayed back, letting her dad explain. He told Forman the story: the hunt for the silver machine, the incident with the meteor shower, the ways they'd attempted to find information. It was strange to hear it aloud after so much secrecy, but the Lieutenant's expression never altered from its dispassionate stare. The other officers stayed silent too, content to wait and listen.

The pale man shifted subtly. A joint cracked.

Occasionally, Forman would ask her a question for clarification – _'why did you do it?'_ or _'how did you know that?'_ – but for the most part she was left alone.

Five minutes later, her father trailed off. "They've been trying to help," he said, "and are doing a decent job. If we take the sensible option, it removes _one_ of our problems and we can divert those resources elsewhere. We certainly should, in my opinion…"

"I see," Forman said eventually. "Thank you for your input, case officer." Then, he turned to Rachel, and suddenly she found that she couldn't tear her gaze away. _Something about his eyes,_ she realised. _It's like a shark, or a killer whale, hiding just beneath the surface of the water._ They glinted in the gloom. "A few questions," he said.

Rachel nodded.

"First: What do you think was the 'result' of the meteor shower? What was its purpose?"

"I…" She paused. "It was clearly alien in origin. Maybe it was a landing."

"And why would you think that?"

"Because if you've been talking to another alien species, it's reasonable to assume they might come and visit."

" _Another_ alien species." Forman's eyes swivelled to his fellow officers, then back to her. "I wonder how you came to be in possession of such information. It's _very_ reasonable to assume you don't have the right clearance. Your own father, I believe, does not?"

"No," Ryan muttered.

"Hmm."

Rachel bit her tongue softly, focusing on the pain. _Be calm. Be careful. There are things you should know, and things you shouldn't, especially with what Mirka told you. Dangerous territory here._ "I wasn't involved, but I think my friends stole that information."

"Oh? Possession of classified documents is a punishable offence."

She glanced at her father, the first hints of worry building in her chest. He put his hand on her shoulder. "I wanted to move past that," Ryan said. "Which is why we're here."

"Indeed." Forman turned, whispering to the woman behind him. The pale man stood stock-still, blending into the background. "A further question: the silver machine you built. You're likely aware that a number of alien artefacts have been discovered around the world. Your 'communications device' doesn't fit this pattern but remains of paramount interest to us."

"You never found it on the hill?"

"No, we did not. What do you know of the artefacts?"

"Not much." She shrugged. "The others probably know more."

"Your friends?"

"Yes."

"How troublesome." The Lieutenant was watching her very closely, now, his eyes trained on her expression. She did her best to remain as emotionless as possible. It was something she'd had a lot of practice with. "If the device was a beacon your landing theory becomes more plausible. We detected an unusual spike of microwave activity after you set it off, so your role in events fits to a certain degree. And those signals certainly weren't coming from Earth."

"What do you mean, spike?" she asked.

"I mean—" His eyes narrowed. "You already knew about it."

"What?"

"You knew. How did you know?"

"I didn't." Her face was a blank slate, or at least, she thought it was. _I didn't give him anything! My parents can't even tell I'm lying!_

"Somebody told you," Forman said, thinking aloud. "But who? Surely there isn't a leak. It would have to be one of the researchers, one of Woodward's. There are ways they could disrupt things… but we screened them. Hmm. What's your shoe size?"

She took a moment to process the question. "Eight."

"So you _were_ there, at least."

"Ah—" Her father stepped forward calmly. "—this wasn't the discussion I intended. We've established that this information is in the open. The question is how both groups can help each other."

"Help?" Forman spat the word as if it disgusted him. "Fine, you want help. The issue is that I knew most of this already, which makes how YOU knew the much more interesting topic. You're on the back foot here – what's to stop me from taking your friends and locking them away right now?"

 _Think fast_. "We've made arrangements," she lied.

"Have you."

"We told others."

"That was not a good idea."

"You should tell people," Rachel continued. "There's no reason for this to be hidden."

"We don't have to tell people _anything_ ," he snarled.

"Then at least protect them!" her father said. "They're only children, getting caught in a cause they don't understand. It isn't their fault. They aren't _safe_. They were never a threat to what you or I do."

"The thing _I_ don't understand," Rachel said, "is why haven't more people figured it out? The research goes back decades. Thousands of people worked on it. How could you cover it up?"

"Easy," Forman replied. "We discredit them. Most citizens pride themselves on being sceptical when somebody goes running to the newspapers with an 'I talked to aliens' story. And there are many, many reasons to keep it hidden, the most crucial being that the first country to figure out this technology will lead the world for a hundred years. Limitless energy, instantaneous travel, unbeatable armies – the possibilities are endless. We could be _gods_. I think that's worth a bit of secrecy, don't you?"

_So the people in power want to stay in power. It's the same all over the world – instead of sharing the benefits with mankind they'll keep it for themselves. Predictable._

"Honestly, I'm puzzled as to why you came. What were you hoping to gain? I can do very little to help you, _especially_ considering how much you've damaged our plans… unless you give me something in return. Something I don't already know."

 _A deal with the devil. Starting to regret this chain of events._ Then, she noticed the pale man step forwards. Forman turned, a little surprised.

"Oh," he murmured. "I believe Mister Kruger would like a word."

Slowly, the pale man _stalked_ towards her; it was the most appropriate word for his slow, sinewy movements. She stared up at him, resisting the impulse to flee. He was thin, absurdly thin, face concealed by the hat and an irritating blur that refused to come into focus. She saw pale, damp cheeks, stony black pupils—

He stopped, and reached for her face with one skeletal hand. She twitched but the hand didn't quite touch her; instead, it swept under her chin then up along her cheek, his fingers bare millimetres away as they brushed the tiny, invisible hairs dotting her skin. She stared, eyes wide, frozen. Thick veins lined the back of his hand, the skin stretched, almost translucent. His nails ended in sharp, cruel points. It almost tickled. She might've laughed if it hadn't been so unsettling.

Not only that; unsettlingly _familiar_. _I've seen him before, or a person very much like him. But where!? A long time ago…_

The pale man leaned closer. He smelled of dust; dust and age. _If I didn't know better I'd say he had three months to live._ She couldn't quite see what he was doing. Then, unexpectedly, he whispered a word into her ear.

"Hello."

Slowly, he withdrew, retreating into the shadows. And suddenly she _remembered_.

"I do know something you don't," she said softly. "They were eggs."

Forman raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

"The meteors. I saw one open." _It was there, I touched it, but why would I remember now?!_ She shook her head. "Eggs is the wrong word. 'Pods' might be more accurate. They were transport pods, like – when paratroopers would jump out of planes in World War 2, to attack from behind enemy lines. This was equivalent. There were living things inside them."

"What _kind_ of living things?" Forman asked.

"I'm not sure."

"Don't lie."

"I'm not sure, I never saw one." She tried to ignore the taller figure standing at the rear of lab; in her peripheral vision she saw him raise his hand and _sniff_ it. His voice had been soft, hoarse, but ultimately normal. It'd reminded her of an old schoolteacher.

"That _is_ interesting," Forman said. For a moment, he tilted his head, like a dog trying to decide which ball to chase first. "Guess what? I think I might have good news. Against my better judgement, I'm going to let you go!" He spread his hands. "Don't expect any help, but I will consider not arresting you and your friends _immediately._ Technically, your father is right: resources spent dealing with you could be better applied elsewhere."

Rachel frowned, surprised the Lieutenant would simply leave them be. He didn't seem the type for forgiveness. She felt her dad relax.

"I am _somewhat_ open to further sharing of information, if you happen to discover anything else," he added. "But – do not test me. You'll find that I'm very different when I'm angry."

The female officer behind him nodded.

"I understand," Rachel said.

` "Good." He smiled humourlessly. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I suppose you're free to go. Oh, and tell your friends not to break into any more of my facilities. Such things are best handled by professionals… like Mister Kruger here, who seems to like you much more than I do. Let's hope your beacon stunt hasn't caused irreparable damage."

Her father put a protective arm around her shoulder, ushering her towards the door. "Time to leave," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I thought this was a good idea."

 _So did I_ , she thought. _'Naïve' is the word you're looking for._ She felt eyes on her back, and hunched her shoulders grimly. _That Lieutenant must be up to something._ _Something which means that I'm probably going to regret this more than I already do._

* * *

Together they walked into the garden, the grass beaded with dewdrops. Preston paused in the doorway, silhouetted by pale yellow light. Stars twinkled overhead.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Joe asked.

"Yeah dummy," said Charles. "Easy as pie."

" _Yes,_ but I don't think it worked—"

"Of course it worked! It was the best speech in history."

"I don't think it did," Preston insisted. He remembered his mother's narrowed eyes, his father's casual lean against the wall while Charles filibustered from the kitchen bench. Some words were loud, some were quiet. _'Is that how you really feel?' 'Is that what you think we want?'_

"It worked," Martin said. "Just give it a couple days."

"Oh. Alright."

"Trust us," Charles said. "It's not like some textbook where it's obvious. Feelings are subtle. Your parents got the message. It'll be fine."

"Well – thanks, then." His voice was slightly strangled.

Joe looked away uncomfortably. "Man, aren't you glad Cary isn't here? Otherwise he would've seen you cry."

* * *

The next day, on the way to school, Joe was stopped by an army jeep. It sat stationary at the top of the hill, headlights on high beam. He squinted, shielding his eyes but the jeep didn't move. Nobody got out.

He shrugged and kept walking, head down. As he passed, he glanced inside and saw a pair of soldiers. Both were watching him.

Over the next couple of days, he noticed that there was usually another jeep parked on his and Charles' street again. He never saw it move but it was always there, waiting.

He wondered why.

* * *

Jack Lamb stared at the newspaper's front page. ' _KILLER ON THE LOOSE!'_ it shouted, in a bold all-caps. _'Three dead and mutilated in Lillian.'_ He flipped the page and found himself face-to-face with photos of the victims. One man. One woman. One boy. Still no culprit. The text swam before his eyes.

"Very sensitive," Jack muttered. "I _told_ them to keep it low-key."

"At least they haven't put up a billboard," Deputy Rosko said.

"Don't jinx it." He sighed, leaning back in his chair, in his office at the police station. "Story's out, then."

"Yep."

"It's gonna be a busy day."

"Yep." Rosko pursed his lips. "I can handle it, I know you've got a lot on your plate."

"Nah. Three people died, least I can do is show my face." He glanced out the window, where an anxious line of people was already forming by the station entrance. "Storm's coming. I can feel it."

* * *

Thunder crashed, rattling the roof of the gymnasium as the school gathered for their weekly assembly. Hundreds of pupils sat in rows of plastic chairs, staring at the lectern up front, the air heavy and grey.

"Many of you have probably heard," the principal began, "but I must share tragic news. One of our students, Sebastian Tally, has passed away—"

Shocked murmurs erupted across the gym.

"—passed away last Wednesday. I acknowledge that this may take some time to sink in, but it is truly heartbreaking."

Joe exchanged a glance with Charles. _'Did you know him?'_ Charles mouthed.

' _I met him once or twice.'_

Lightning flashed.

That night, there was a candlelit shrine outside the town hall. Nobody knew who'd set it up, but it'd gradually appeared throughout the day – photos, flowers, handwritten notes. Three flames flickered in the darkness. People wandered past to pay their respects, in the way they often did whenever a tragedy hit close to home. Quiet prayers. A few tears. Whispered questions. Lillian was a small community, and many people prided themselves on how it could join together to support those in need.

Every day there were new flowers, wilting sadly on the grass.

* * *

Louis Dainard tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of his yellow Skylark. A train of vehicles clogged the road ahead of him, traffic at a standstill. This was INFURIATING. _There ain't enough cars in Lillian to make a traffic jam!_ He revved the engine, smoke belching from the exhaust. Maybe there'd been an accident. This was one of the main roads out of town, and every now and then some idiot would take a bend too fast. Still, it didn't explain why things were moving so _slow_.

Ten agonising minutes later he reached the disruption's cause: the army had set up a checkpoint across the highway, where each outbound car was stopped and examined by a squad of serious-looking soldiers. One officer stood in the middle, directing cars to either side. _What the hell?_ Eventually, it was his turn and he pulled up next to the checkpoint, winding down the window with an appropriately pissed-off expression.

"Morning," the soldier said.

Louis glared.

"No passengers today?"

"Does it look like I have passengers?"

"Just answer the question and you'll be able to leave shortly. Anything in the trunk?"

"No! A spare tire."

"Okay. One second." The soldier gestured to one of his buddies, who pointed a camera-like device at the car. Louis heard a click. "All done."

"…This happening on all the roads out of town?"

The soldier nodded.

"Lookin' for something?"

"I can't answer that. Please be on your way."

Louis snorted and stamped hard on the accelerator, tires squealing in a cloud of smoke. _Checkpoints on every road? That's crazy_. He noticed a spot of black dust on the dashboard and scratched it off with a fingernail.

* * *

Joe sat with his friends on the school oval, munching on his recess. Cary chased a soccer ball in the background, kicking it with Martin. He'd already hit one unsuspecting girl in the back of the head by accident and was about to scalp another. Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by a low _thrum_ in the distance.

Joe stared. "I think it's a helicopter."

The chopper swept in close above the town, startlingly loud. It was one of those big green cargo 'copters with two sets of propellers; a huge box, like a shipping container, was suspended in a net beneath it. It swung to a stop near the cemetery, hovering low over the ground.

"Wonder what it's carrying," Preston said.

"Dunno," Charles replied.

"Wonder where it's going."

"Dunno."

Joe gazed across the grass. The helicopter stayed for roughly a minute, just out of view, before engines chugged with an abrupt change of pitch and it rose swiftly into the sky. The box and net had been removed. Quickly, it sped towards the hills, little more than a dot in the distance.

Later Cary told them it was a Chinook, usually used for troop movement and resupply.

* * *

Nobody was quite sure when the mould first appeared. Some said it'd come from the town's water supply. Others said it'd come from the forests, spreading on the breeze like mushroom spores. Police reports would later show that a sticky black substance had been discovered at all three of the murder scenes: long trails in the vents of the hardware store, hardened specks on the highway, a murky pool in the woods near Dayton.

Mrs Kaznyk opened the pantry and frowned. There was a black, dusty stain on the floor, like somebody had spilled motor oil. "Hey! Brian!"

"Yeah?" her husband called back.

"You spill anything in the pantry?"

"No I did not," was the tired reply.

Mrs Kaznyk rolled her eyes. He'd probably had a midnight snack and forgotten about it. She went to fetch the mop and bucket.

_'There's a black stain on the floor.'_

_'Where?'_

_'The pantry. Come and look.'_

_'Well, I didn't do it.'_

She grasped the mop and was about to get to work when the pantry's light-bulb blew. _Crack!_ Sudden darkness. "Oh, fiddlesticks," she groaned. "Brian?"

"…Whaaaat?"

"The pantry light—" She stopped. Stared. The stain was _glowing_. It had a faint green luminescence to it, like a glow-in-the-dark sticker. Emerald spots floated on the tiles. "I hope that didn't come from _our_ food."

* * *

Mr McCandless strode through his farmyard towards the main gate. Fences and haybales loomed in the mist, the barn an indistinct shadow amid hazy white surroundings. _Who's honking their horn at this hour of the morning?_

 _Beep! Beep!_ The horn sounded again. Whoever was waiting was damned impatient, that was for sure. The nerve! Tendrils of fog swept round his feet. It was early in the year for it to be so thick but he'd always liked foggy weather; it made the world feel smaller. Soon, he reached the gate, boots slicked with moisture.

There wasn't just one car – it was a whole bloody convoy of them. The first was a tall white truck, like a moving van, while behind it were jeeps and cars and yet more trucks stretching down the muddy track all the way to the bottom of the hill. His eyes widened.

A woman in a lab coat exited the lead truck. She rubbed her arms in the cold, then made her way towards him. McCandless stayed on his side of the fence.

"Hello," she said. "Tom McCandless?"

"That's me," he grunted.

"I was wondering if we could take a look around your farm."

He gazed at the convoy for a moment. "And do what?"

"Take soil samples, mostly."

"…Soil samples?"

"Yes. The Department of Agriculture is very interested in the land in this region. We'll stay out of your way; ideally, you won't notice we were ever here. It should only take a few hours."

"And if I say no?" he asked, in a tone that suggested he was very much inclined to.

"Well," the woman said, "that's up to you." She took a wad of paper from her breast pocket. It was cash, he realised. Hundreds of dollars. Maybe thousands.

"You promise not to damage anything?" McCandless said.

"Of course."

He took the cash.

The farmer kept an eye on his unexpected visitors, watching them as he worked. They were concentrated around one of his furthest paddocks, the one where the space-rock had hit a couple weeks ago. The crater was still there, though grass was rapidly reclaiming it.

He fed the cows. Led them from one field to another.

Most of the group were scientists, with a couple of security guards for good measure. 'Taking samples' seemed to involve a bit of digging but true to their word, they filled the holes in afterwards. At one point he saw them shine purplish light at the ground, photographing spots that appeared.

He repaired a fence, then hopped on the tractor, drove up and down ploughing furrows in the dirt.

The scientists sure talked a lot – always whispering in excited huddles, or writing notes on clipboards. McCandless shook his head. Strange folk. Several machines were carried from the trucks in big, heavy boxes.

Some hours later, the mysterious group left, the convoy vanishing into the mist.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him and McCandless trudged down to the dam, to the spot where they'd done most of their testing. The ground was criss-crossed with muddy tire-tracks. His gaze caught a splash of black and yellow: a symbol spray-painted on the grass.

"Leave no trace, my ass," he muttered. The symbol had a yellow background, consisting of four overlapping black circles.

'BIOHAZARD', it said.

* * *

"So it just… showed up," Jack began.

"Yeah." Donny Olsen nodded. "Yeah, it was laying on the floor. _I_ didn't put it there."

"And you don't know where it came from?"

"No clue, man. No clue."

Jack knelt next to the electronics store's heating vent. On the floor was an odd black cylinder. It looked as if it was made of wax or resin, roughly a foot long, one end a little thicker than the other. It reminded him of a miniature steel mill chimney. He poked at it with his pencil. _Fairly light_. "You got a bag?"

"Yeah, here."

Jack manoeuvred the object into the plastic bag. Its surface was rough, like a half-melted candle. Behind him, rows of camera and hi-fi equipment sat in polished glass cases.

"And nothing's missing," Jack said.

"Right, I checked the inventory. It's all here."

"But you think there was a break-in?"

"How else would it get in here?"

"Well gee, Donny, I dunno, but it's much harder to arrest people for leaving things in places, rather than taking 'em." Jack stood up. The store was quiet, the air chilled and dusty. A few globs of hardened black gunk were scattered across the floor. He peered closer; there were more inside the vent. A trail, perhaps. _Rings a bell. I swear one of the recent case reports mentioned black mould?_

"I was talking to a dude who works at the pharmacy," Donny added, "and he said he saw similar stuff – a black object."

Jack blinked. "Really? Who?"

The doorbell _dinged_ as another person entered the store. It was Mrs Erikson, the local swim teacher.

"Hey Jack, I've been lookin' for you," she began. "Can we talk? Something weird's been happenin' on my street."

"Sure, could you wait outside? I'll just be a minute."

The doorbell dinged again. This time it was a person he didn't recognise; several people, actually. The one in the lead was a blonde-haired woman. Behind her was a group of scientists. She strode towards Jack and Donny.

"Hello," she said in a no-nonsense voice. "My name is Mirka Soderling. This site is now under military control."

Jack was, to put it lightly, surprised. " _What_?!"

"Yeah, what?" Donny added.

"We believe there has been a biological contamination. Please, step out of the store."

"But it's _my_ store!" Donny said.

"It's for your own safety."

Jack glanced out the window to where a squad of soldiers was gathering on the sidewalk. _Shit, it's happening again._ He turned back to the woman. "I don't like this," he said firmly, "and nobody else will either."

* * *

_Here we go again,_ Jack thought, as he stepped up to the lectern. _People are sad, scared, starting to panic, same as last time. It's like one of those plays that gets performed every year with subtle differences each time._

 _I hope this version's an improvement._ He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It was hot inside the town hall's meeting room, mostly due to the hundred people crammed inside it. Everybody had questions and complaints about what was happening – the deaths, the continued military presence, god knows what else – so the mayor had decided to call another public meeting. Jack gritted his teeth, staring at the crowd, the air buzzing with an undercurrent of paranoia. Pale sunlight fell through too-small windows. _The problem is that_ I _don't know anything either, so it's hardly like I can help._

Sighing inwardly, he opened his mouth to speak.

* * *

Joe sat towards the back of the town hall, watching his father. Jack had seemed pretty stressed for the past week, and whenever Joe had asked about it he'd brushed the question aside, but it didn't take a genius to notice that strange stuff had been happening – stuff which his dad had to spend time dealing with. _And it all started after we nearly died setting off that stupid beacon._

Charles, Cary and the others sat beside him on the floor; Mirka still hadn't contacted them, so the meeting had been their best option for getting new information. Charles was wearing his bright yellow windcheater, which crackled loudly every time he moved, while Rachel stared at the carpet, deep in thought.

"Ahem!" Jack began. There was a sharp whine over the loudspeaker, quickly silenced. "We've asked you here today to get a better idea of what's happening around town. Many of you have come to me with stories over the past few days, and we want to understand how widespread these problems are. I'd like to begin by asking for complaints, or reports of unusual activity."

Several dozen hands shot up across the room. His father scanned the crowd, then pointed at a blonde-haired man. "Louis. You got something?"

Joe frowned. _Mr Dainard's here? I didn't think he was the type of person who'd care._ Jack and Louis had become – not friends, exactly, but at least friend- _ly_. It helped _._ He glanced at Alice, who also seemed surprised.

"Yeah," Louis Dainard said, "I got something. You know those checkpoints they've set up on the roads out of town?"

Angry murmurs bounced across the room.

"What about them?" Jack asked.

"They've started turning people back, not letting us leave." Louis raised his fist angrily. "I couldn't even drive to work! It's ridiculous."

"Really? Anybody else had that problem?"

_"Me too, yeah!"_

_"Hear hear!"_

Jack frowned. "First I've heard of it; I'll go talk to 'em. They give a reason for stopping you?"

"Yeah, some _bullshit_ about a quarantine," Louis replied. "I don't buy it."

"Your dad's pretty cool," Cary murmured.

Alice rolled her eyes. "Not really. Although you _do_ kinda look like him – when he was a kid, I mean."

Another woman stood up, with so much force that she nearly knocked her chair over. Her thick glasses quivered with rage. "Jack!"

"…Yes, Debbie?"

"People _died_! Three people! The time for asking nicely is _over_. The army said they'd leave two months ago but they're still here, making our lives miserable!"

_"Yeah!"_

_"Yes, exactly! Make them leave!"_

Jack made calming motions with his hands. "I'm sympathetic, I really am, but I don't think you realise how this works. You can't just _ask_ the military to leave—"

"Then we kick 'em out!" Debbie said, undeterred. "Losing all those microwaves pissed me off the first time—"

On stage, Jack resisted a snort. _For the rest of my life I'll be hearing about those damn microwaves._

"—but now more people are dead! That isn't right! I'm telling you, this whole thing is because the Russians are planning to invade."

A woman at the edge of the room interrupted. "Then isn't it a _good_ thing we have the army here? For protection?"

Debbie whirled around. "No! Because—"

"THERE IS VERY LITTLE WE CAN DO ABOUT THE MILITARY," Jack said, quite loudly. "For now, we're going to have to deal with it and do our best to put up a fight. Not literally, but – let's make it clear this isn't acceptable. They shouldn't be able to walk all over us."

Debbie appeared to be placated by this, and sat down. "She reminds me of my mom," Martin whispered, in a slightly depressed tone.

Preston patted him on the back. "There there."

"Dude, I'm not a little kid."

"There there."

"I reckon it's aliens!" a man yelled suddenly.

The room was silent for a moment, followed by a ripple of nervous laughter.

"No, I'm serious! It's got _somethin'_ to do with those meteors a few weeks ago! It was – it was an alien ship and government's trying to cover it up!"

Another laugh. Joe sat up straighter, searching for the voice. It was an older man, with a scraggly beard and creased flannel shirt. _Don't laugh_ , he thought, _because if only you knew…_

With an ear-splitting crack, the doors to the rear burst open. BANG! Through them marched a squad of camouflage-clad soldiers. Joe's eyes widened. Cary leapt up, standing on a chair. The soldiers moved quickly around the side as another squad followed, filing through the door; the room was suddenly filled with raised voices, people standing, shouting, whirling around in confusion. Joe couldn't see his dad anymore, his view blocked by the family in front of him. Martin's mouth fell open in shock.

_"What the hell?!"_

_"What are they doing here?"_

Another squad of soldiers entered, then another, marching past the group of teenagers, gathering towards the rear of the hall as others moved towards the front. Debbie tried to block their path, hands on hips, glaring furiously. "Excuse me! This is a private meeting—"

The officer in charge shoved her aside. She stumbled sideways, falling against her neighbours and shock spread across the room like wildfire. _"Hey, you can't do that!"_ A few others attempted to bar their way but the soldiers pushed past roughly, disregarding the rapidly-darkening atmosphere. Joe spotted a couple of stealthily held rifles. Alice clasped his hand nervously. One man tried pushing back and was swiftly tackled to the ground. _"Hands on your head! Don't move!"_

Then he saw Lieutenant Forman. _Ohhh no. Oh no._ He shivered instinctively. The officer strode into the room ahead of the final group of soldiers; Joe shrank back but he walked straight past them, smiling grimly. Boots thumped in threatening rhythm.

"This is bad," Martin hissed.

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Cary retorted. He jumped up to get a better view, nearly falling from the chair. "There's like, twenty army dudes up there. Or thirty."

Joe watched the Lieutenant make a beeline for the stage while the crowd ebbed, penned in by the guards stationed around the room. _"Mom, what's happening?" "Hey, let us out!"_

Then he heard his father's voice, sharp over the speakers: "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!"

"I'm sorry, Sherriff. Please give me the microphone."

"Hey!"

Something crashed to the floor. Joe took a couple of steps sideways, caught a glimpse of the stage, saw his father being manhandled out of the way by two burly soldiers. He looked _pissed_ but there wasn't much he could do, no matter how hard he struggled. Soon, Jack disappeared into the mob. Joe swallowed.

"What's happening?" Charles asked.

"I'm not sure," he replied. "I think…"

 _Tap tap tap!_ Forman took his place behind the lectern, testing the microphone with his finger. He surveyed the crowd, then gave a terse nod. At the back of the room, a pair of guards closed the doors once more. The _click_ as they locked had a strange air of finality to it; a quiet sound that instantly filled the entire chamber, silencing the shocked gathering. The murmurs died down.

Slowly, given the lack of anything else they could do, the residents turned to the stage. Soldiers around the perimeter stared stonily ahead, weapons holstered but on clear display.

"Good morning!" Forman said brightly, words booming from the rafters. "I hope you're all having a good Saturday." His eyes twinkled.

The friendliness was oddly absurd. Joe scowled, his cheeks glowing red with something that felt a lot like anger. _He's fake! Don't fall for it. Everything he says is a lie, and he thinks he can get away with it because he has people with guns backing him up._

_…Alright, lots of people with guns. I wish he'd leave us ALONE._

"I know many of you have concerns," Forman continued, "but I assure you that those concerns are _completely_ unfounded. So, meeting's over. Disperse. Go home." He gazed over the assembly, every eye glued to his solitary green figure. "That is all."

Silence. You could've heard a mouse fart.

"…What if we don't?" asked one particularly brave spectator.

Forman didn't move. "That is all," he said again.

"You can't—"

"DISPERSE!" The voice was shockingly loud, and used to being obeyed. The Lieutenant glared, scanning for defiance, facing it down till it melted away. For less than a second, his eyes locked with Joe at the opposite side of the room. There was a brief grin of recognition, like a wolf. Joe shuddered, a chill deep in his chest.

Then, in unison, the soldiers stepped forwards. Working from the front, they started directing people towards the doors; at first there was a hint of resistance, people pausing uncertainly, the mood balanced on a knife-edge. Then they began shuffling towards the rear.

"Should we… leave?" Alice asked quietly.

"What are you suggesting? Of course we should leave!" Martin replied.

Joe caught a few familiar faces in the crowd. The chamber was dark, nervous, on edge. _They came here for answers and were treated like criminals._ It wasn't quite a riot, not yet.

Then it was. The first actual scream came from near the stage, followed by the sound of toppling furniture. Joe couldn't see the source of the commotion; could only follow the rapid ripple of movement through the crowd, people turning their heads, packed shoulder-to-shoulder. "Can you see anything?" he asked Cary.

"Yeah, I think a girl fell over! They're shoving the soldiers back – oh crap!" Cary ducked, sliding off his chair as a Coke bottle smashed into the wall above his head. Glass showered across the carpet. Quickly, they shuffled out of the way.

"Who threw that?" Charles asked.

"Some guy who's WAY too angry!"

The soldiers were moving in, locking to form a barrier as people seethed forwards. Most bystanders were simply trying to get away but the crush of bodies made it difficult to move. The disturbance at the front was spreading rapidly. " _Stay calm!"_ someone shouted uselessly. _"Everybody stay calm!"_ Joe spotted his dad, on the stage again, trying to get people's attention. Nobody listened. Joe waved, catching his eye; Jack shook his head. " _Go home!"_ he shouted, near-inaudible over the din.

"Hey, dad! Wait—"

" _Go home!"_ He jogged down the steps, lost from view.

Then, the crowd parted like a sea, and marching through the gap came Lieutenant Forman. He walked straight to the group of teenagers, hands in his pockets, flanked by a pair of henchmen. Instinctively, they huddled a little closer. Even Rachel was on edge; she stepped back, trying not to be noticed.

"How interesting," Forman said. "I thought I'd find you here." Behind him, Mr McCandless was arguing with a soldier; the Lieutenant ignored them both. "I hope you're staying out of trouble."

"We were until _you_ came along," Cary spat.

He swivelled to face the shorter, blonde-haired boy. "Oh, I remember you. You're the troublemaker."

"— _biohazard!"_ Mr McCandless was saying. " _I want to know what you did to my farm!"_

"Just so you know," Forman continued, "I appreciate all the information you gave me." His eyes crinkled. "I pray that our future encounters will also be… productive."

"…What information?" Charles asked suspiciously.

Rachel stepped forwards. "Charles, don't—"

"Wait. What information?"

"Oh, didn't you know? She's told me all about you," Forman said, unable to hide his glee. "She came last night all on her own to tell me all _sorts_ of secrets: meteor showers, silver beacons, how certain people stole classified information…" He shrugged. "If it makes it better, I think she was trying to help in her own misguided way."

Preston stared in shock. Alice clenched her fists worriedly. Charles looked at the Lieutenant, then at Rachel, then at the Lieutenant again, mouth open.

"Woah," Joe said, "you _told_ him?! HIM? The EVIL GUY?!"

"I – I didn't," Rachel said, backing away in panic. "I told my dad."

"Why?"

"Because—"

"I'm sorry it had to be like this," Forman interrupted, "but I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you away now – for questioning, you understand. Just to make sure of a few facts."

 _No_ , Joe thought, _we CAN'T go back there, not with them—_

"Not happening," Jack Lamb barked. He came running around the side of the room, dodging the guards and panicked bystanders. Two soldiers attempted to block his way but he dodged aside. Joe nearly collapsed with relief.

Forman held up a hand. "I won't _hurt_ them, Sherriff."

"Bullcrap." He turned, gazing across the crowd. "Louis, get over here! I need some help!"

"Sherriff, please, there's no need to make this difficult—"

Cary turned on Rachel. "What the _shit_ did you do?"

"Nothing!" Her voice rose. "I told my father what we did because I thought he could help – I explained but you never listened. You didn't want to listen."

"'Cause we knew THIS would happen!" Cary retorted. Somewhere, another bottle broke.

"It wasn't supposed to."

"The whole _point_ was to go behind the military's back _,_ " Joe said sharply. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. _Calm down. It's gonna be OK._ "We needed to work in secret because of what they did to Cooper. I mean, I _know_ it's your dad, but… why did he decide to tell them everything?"

"I – I don't know." Her eyes focused on a point far away, unwilling to meet his gaze.

Charles remained silent, overcome with… disappointment? Confusion? In the corner of his eye, Joe saw a pair of Lillian police officers quickly join his father. Louis Dainard was there too, arguing with Lieutenant Forman and glancing at his daughter. The small group of navy-blue uniforms was oddly comforting. People streamed through the doors behind them, not looking back, the town hall still mostly full as shouting filled his ears.

"I thought I… I was doing the right thing," Rachel said, almost inaudibly.

Martin shook his head. "I know you wanted to help but your dad's working for the WRONG SIDE. You should've realised—"

"There's no 'wrong' side, it's not black and white."

"But the military don't care about us," Cary yelled, "we're expendable to them! Don't you get it?"

Alice stepped between them, pushed him back. "Guys, I know we're angry but this isn't the best time—"

"Sorry, but you were _very_ misguided if you thought there'd be a positive result," Preston said.

One segment of the crowd rushed forwards, a wave of motion, pushing against the line of soldiers; it buckled, but held. Somebody screamed, abruptly silenced. The squad of police had surrounded Forman as families fled through the exit.

"Everybody makes mistakes," Charles said suddenly.

They all whirled to face him. "Yeah, well one mistake was trusting _her_ ," Cary retorted.

"Don't say that!"

"It's true! She's been spying on us this whole time!"

"Shut up Cary, she _said_ she was trying to help!" Charles shouted.

"And she did _exactly_ what we told her not to – don't you get it? You trusted her and told her everything and she's been spilling the beans to her dad in the…"

"…CIA," Preston said helpfully.

"Exactly, the friggin' SPY agency!"

Charles' face was torn. "Everybody makes mistakes."

"But we make mistakes _together_ ," Joe said. "That's what we've always done."

"You're only on her side 'cause you like her," Cary said darkly.

"What?"

"I've seen the way you look at her at lunch. It's the Alice situation all over again."

Charles recoiled. "I – I like her as a _friend_! We're friends!"

Rachel looked away, embarrassed. "Hey—"

"Cheap shot, Cary," Alice muttered.

"Oh _you're_ one to talk, Little Miss Perfect."

"What's _that_ got to do with anything?!"

"I think we should calm down?" Preston said uncertainly. "The Lieutenant's coming towards us."

"She's a spy!" Cary said again.

"Shut UP," Charles hissed, "you're making this worse. We all told our parents, and the only difference is they never believed us!"

Joe winced. He looked at Rachel, who seemed about to cry. _She's usually so composed…_ _I get what she was trying to do, I really do, but there's a_ reason _we didn't want to put ourselves in danger like this._

"Look," Alice interrupted, "what's done is done. We can deal with this later once we're not about to be kidnapped. Its – it's not a huge deal!"

Suddenly Joe's father appeared out of the crowd, running ahead of Lieutenant Forman's squad. He grabbed Joe's shoulder, gave them a quick nod. "They won't do anything," he grunted. "Not here, too many witnesses. But you have to follow me to the station _right_ now."

Rachel didn't hear him. His words were drowned out by a ringing in her ears, vision blurred by a hint of moisture. She wiped her nose. _Don't cry. You haven't cried since Kei. I'm sorry, I didn't know it'd turn out this way. I'm sorry._ She glanced at Joe, huddled with his father, at Alice, still defending her, at Charles and the mixture of concern and anger on his face. The crowd was starting to thin, the soldiers gaining the upper hand.

Then, Joe went rigid – face blank, like his muscles had seized up. Slowly, he toppled to the ground, falling flat on his face.

Rachel blinked, surprise breaking through the fog.

"Joe?" Charles asked.

Time _rushed_ into fast-forward. Jack crouched down, grabbed Joe's shoulders, flipped him over. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. No response. Blood leaked from his nose, dark red. Alice knelt as the others crowded round.

"Is he breathing?"

Jack felt for a pulse. "No, no no no… Joe! Joe, talk to me!"

* * *

He stood in an empty town hall – a sharp contrast to the one he'd just left. It was perfectly silent, the air cool and clear, bright white enveloping the room.

_Where am I?_

He turned in a circle, disoriented. Sunlight fell upon his face; the type of warmth you could feel in every pore of your skin. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, there was a woman at the front of the hall. It was—

"Mom?"

She smiled at him, teeth sparkling. Looked just like he remembered, flowing dark hair, a pale blue dress, flickering in a non-existent breeze.

 _Oh. This isn't real, then._ The thought hit like a sledgehammer but he did his best to ignore it.

_Where am I?_

His mother raised one delicate hand. She seemed… smaller. _Or maybe I'm taller?_ She tilted her head – a familiar, almost mischievous gesture, usually followed by a joke at dad's expense – then beckoned him towards her.

He took a step.

The world _warped_. The town hall lengthened, stretching into a tunnel, long and dark and endless which he _sped_ through head-first faster and faster like a bullet down the barrel of a gun until—

He stopped. _A hill. I see… a hill, in a forest. At the top there's—_

He warped towards it. _A house. An old mansion, falling into ruin._

Diving into the house, then into the ground, through a thick trapdoor so solid he thought he'd break his neck as he flew past – into a tunnel. A real tunnel. Twisting, turning, like the labyrinth beneath the Lillian cemetery. Soon the tunnel ended in an unseen chamber, the rear wall criss-crossed with straight black lines, alternating with glaring light—

_It's… a pipe! A barred entrance. A secret room._

In the room, his mother waited. Her eyes were suddenly angry – as if she'd caught him lying again.

"Come," she said, a rasping hiss.

Joe ran. The scene retreated, replaced by blinding white, then shadow till the world around him was nothing but endless black. He fell into oblivion, thoughts receding into unconsciousness.

 _I know where it's hiding,_ he realised, before the darkness took him.

_And I know where we have to go next._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna hear a secret? The reason this story is so damn long is because I planned it out as a TV series. A 26-episode series. I thought that'd be a 'fun' way to do it. I THOUGHT IT'D BE FUN. And it is, but I regret not doing a simple movie-length sequel. There are issues juggling setup and payoff and making sure things aren't boring for thousands of words at a time, especially when you might not reach a cool part till six months in the future. Of course, I'm happy people are enjoying it so far, and I hope you'll stick with me (and I hope it'll be worth it, haha).
> 
> TLDR: A writer complains about having to write too much.
> 
> Other notes:  
> \- I usually try to be historically accurate, but the arcade games in this chapter are not. Sorry!  
> \- Giving more character development to people like Preston and Martin was another impulse of the 'TV show' idea.  
> \- Oh look, I've already begun killing children. It can only go downhill from here!  
> \- This chapter owes a heavy debt to Stephen King. I've always been interested in how books can evoke horror effectively.  
> \- Super 8 is fairly unkind to the military, huh. I feel I should insert some sympathetic army characters just for balance.  
> \- Thanks for reading, as always!


	32. The House in the Mist

' _Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like.'_

**― _Lemony Snicket_**

* * *

Joe awoke in a pale white room. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, eyes slowly focusing.

_Where am I?_

He looked down. He was in a hospital bed, on his back, cocooned by pressed sheets. The room was small, plain, a medical monitor in the corner. A hint of green grass was visible through the curtains covering the window. Jack sat on a chair near the end of the bed, staring at something in his hands.

Joe coughed.

"You're awake," Jack said, smiling. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah," he croaked. "…How long?"

"Nearly a day." His dad leaned forwards, and put the object on the bedside table. It was a photo frame. Elizabeth's blue eyes stared at them, frozen from behind the glass. "I thought, you know – if she could help…" He glanced at the photo, then shook his head. "It felt lonely in here with only two of us."

Joe nodded. _I wonder how long he's been holding it._ "Water?"

"Yeah, here." Jack got up and filled a glass, then handed it to Joe. "Drink it slow."

Joe did his best, but it was hard not to gulp it down. He wiped his mouth, sitting up against the pillow.

"How are you feeling?" Jack asked.

"Um… pretty good, actually." He wiggled his toes experimentally. "It doesn't hurt. But it's kinda stiff, like I've been asleep for a while."

"No kidding. The doctor gave you a scan but she didn't find anything wrong. Said it was just a faint – it happens sometimes. Do you remember anything?"

Joe looked down. There were still pads stuck to his chest from the ECG. "We were in the town hall… the Lieutenant was there, you were too, people were running… we were about to leave, I think." _Then there was a dream about an alien house, but I might leave that part out._

"That's good. That's good. Hopefully it won't happen again."

 _Hopefully, but it's happening more and more and I don't know why, and if I'm going to be stuck unconscious for a whole day next time I need to find a way to prevent it. I don't care if whatever's changing me is supposed to be 'useful'._ Joe glanced out the window. He vaguely recognised the street outside; he'd only visited the hospital once or twice before.

"I saw her," Joe said, pointing at his mother's picture. "Not _her_ her, obviously, but before I fainted I could _see_ her. Right in front of me."

"Joe, we talked about this—"

"It felt real."

"Joe, stop." Jack turned away with a pained expression. "Remembering her is fine. That kinda stuff… isn't. I thought we'd moved past it."

"Yes, I know. It's in my head." _Is it_ that _different to staring endlessly at a picture?_ "I'm fine."

"Well, I'm glad you're OK," Jack said, forcing cheerfulness. "The doctor said you can go home if you feel strong enough. Oh, and Alice was here earlier."

"She was?"

"Yeah, she waited around for a couple of hours last night. I think she felt uncomfortable with me here though. How are things going, between you and her?"

"Good. They're good."

"You giving her the full dose of Lamb charm?"

"Um…" Joe shrugged. "I don't know. We just sit and talk, mostly."

"Uh-huh. Well, I guess that worked for me and your mother, so best of luck."

"Thanks."

Jack smiled. "She's a nice girl. And remember, a few flowers and a card now and then can make a world of difference. People like it when you're thoughtful."

Joe resisted the urge to laugh. _I wasn't expecting lady advice from dad while still in hospital._ "Did _you_ have any other girlfriends besides mom?"

"Why? Are you doubting my romantic qualifications?"

"Only wondering."

"Actually, there _was_ one – Sally Fielder, the prettiest girl in my seventh grade class." Jack winked. "But she, uh… she had a thing for my best friend. Broke my heart at the tender age of thirteen. Some girls are less pretty, once you get to know 'em. Is there anything I should know about what you guys are doing?"

"Like what?"

"Well, you're gonna be fifteen soon, and _I_ remember what it was like, being fifteen. And sixteen. And seventeen. The… things you think about, the things Liz and I got up to…" Jack blushed, but was determined to push through this conversational minefield. "They, uh, they mention this in health class yet?"

"Yes, like a whole year ago. You don't have to—"

"Look, the best option is just not to do anything. You're young, wait a couple years. Or three. A bit of kissing's fine, obviously, but – do you know what I'm talking about?"

Joe winced. "I have to go to the bathroom."

"No you don't. I'm talking about sex."

The word hit like a bucket of hot water. He went red. "Dad—"

"When you're older, if you _have_ to do something, wear a condom. Do you know what a condom is?"

"Dad, please stop. I _literally_ haven't thought about this—"

"Look, you're smart, I'm sure you'll be able to get one." Jack spoke quickly, as if that'd make it easier. "And make sure you use it, because I read an article in the paper the other day which said that although US teenagers aren't the most sexually active, we have the highest rate of teenage pregnancy."

" _Dad—_ "

"Does Alice know about this stuff? I can't imagine Louis chatting about contraception. It's important, and it'll be a bigger problem for her if something happens, and even if you think it's a good idea at the time, you really have to look at the consequences."

"Dad. Stop." Joe curled into a ball, attempting to disappear.

"Basically wait till you're older, and remember to wear a condom. Because I know teenagers can be… curious, and… d'you understand?"

"Yes! I totally understand! Can we please change the subject?"

* * *

The car ride home was slightly less awkward, until Jack brought up another wound which Joe had nearly forgotten about.

"A couple of months ago, the night before term started, I mentioned us moving away from Lillian. Have you thought any more about it?"

Joe was silent. _No. I didn't want to._

Jack watched the road. "I know, it's more of a long-term thing. But… Joe, everything's falling apart here. It's one bad day after another, with Tally, and the military, and now the fighting. I'd feel bad leaving this all behind, but sometimes I think…"

His unspoken words lay heavy in the air. _It'd be better for us._ Joe gazed out the window, watching the houses, the trees, the distant peaks, all achingly familiar. You never really noticed things precious to you till they were going to be taken away.

"Maybe," he said eventually, "but there's something I need to finish first."

Jack smiled wryly. "I know the feeling. And don't pass out on me again, ya hear? You scared me." He slowed as they approached the driveway. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

* * *

The next day, a deep, vast fog hung heavy over Lillian and the surrounding hills. It suffocated every building and tree at their base, swallowing distant objects and vanishing around every corner. It crept through the school and wrapped each student like a blanket, everyday sights looming in the whitened haze like images in a half-forgotten dream.

Joe held his hand out in front of him and watched it become partially obscured. The sounds of chatter and footsteps that should've filled his ears had all but disappeared. He frowned. The thick white veil was… sinister, somehow, almost tangible, light barely managing to penetrate the mist.

And, thus, the towers began to appear. They were hidden in strange, random spots – a forest clearing, a back alley, a construction site, an overgrown park – and were small at first but grew taller by the day, formed from the same black substance that'd begun appearing on the ground, in the water. It would be days before anyone noticed, and by then they speared metres into the air: organic, webbed towers like tarred seaweed, or collections of roots without a tree.

Things were _slightly_ awkward with Rachel at school, but luckily, most people were too busy stressing about exams to care. They settled for avoiding one another.

"I'm gonna fail," Martin said. "I'm gonna fail history."

"No you're not," Cary said.

"I'm going to _fail_."

"Look, dude, I don't call you Smartin for nothing."

Martin gulped. "You always use that name sarcastically."

"Well _yeah_ , but— if you fail, the world's not gonna end, right?"

* * *

Rachel stared across the hallway. Students streamed past, on their way to their next class, but she ignored them all except for… him.

Charles stood in front of his locker, sorting through his books. She watched him, thinking. Gathering her courage. _You have to talk to him_. He turned to the side, reaching for his backpack and she almost thought he'd see her; but he didn't. _This is silly._ _He's only a person._ She balled her fists a little, then walked across the hall, dodging crowds of teenagers. She stopped behind him. Swallowed. He was still busily packing his locker, humming under his breath. _He isn't that far removed from a walking teddy bear. Why are you afraid of him?_

But she was. "…Charles," she said quietly.

He turned, frowning in surprise. "Rachel?"

She paused, mouth open, thinking of what to say next. But nothing came. _Idiot. You should've planned this before. You never learn._

"Nothing." She walked away down the corridor, her mind blank.

 _That went well, didn't it. You don't even know what class you have next._ She looked up briefly, following a group of girls; she didn't know them. Her whole body felt… hot. Uncomfortable. There was an empty classroom on her left and she ducked into it, searching for a quiet place to think.

 _Without them, you don't have anyone, do you._ She leaned against the blackboard, gazing at the floor, surrounded by her own fear and silence. _Same as always. It never changes._

"Rachel, what's wrong?" It took her a moment to realise its was Charles. He entered the room, puzzled.

"You followed me."

"Of course I followed you."

Charles glanced around, then closed the door behind him. The classroom was a music room. Various instruments were arranged around the sides – drum kits, xylophones, a piano – with chairs and music stands stacked in the corner. Dozens of posters plastered every wall, the floor covered by fake wooden boards. Light streamed through the fog outside, pushing bravely through wide windows to cast the room in twilight.

"You're surprised," Charles said, still waiting by the door.

 _We'll be late for class,_ she thought. _You should go_. _I'm fine._ But try as she might, she couldn't say the words out loud.

_How about telling the truth? May as well. You have literally nothing to lose._

Rachel closed her eyes. "I'm… scared," she said softly.

"Of what?"

"Of you."

Charles pointed to himself. "Me? That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard. Rachel, it's fine." He grinned reassuringly. "And you don't be afraid of the others either. I know they _looked_ angry at the town hall, but they don't mind, really, and I talked to everybody, so it's fine. Cary's still kind of pissed off I guess, but don't worry about him. I can get him to come and—"

"No. That makes it worse." She shook her head. "I'm afraid of… people."

"Like – in general?"

"I… you wouldn't understand. You've always been here, with Joe, and Cary, and your family, and… I never had that. My excuse was that I never wanted it, but I did. I just… never had it. Because I was afraid."

 _That's why. That's the reason for all this. That's why I'm always trying to_ _keep everything distant and close to me at the same time._

 _And it doesn't work. It's taken years to realise it, but it doesn't work._ She stared at her feet.

Suddenly, Charles was next to her. "We should probably sit down," he murmured.

She followed him to the piano stool and sat awkwardly, hands in her lap, surrounded by scattered music sheets. Charles tiptoed between assorted percussion instruments and managed to grab a drummer's stool, nearly overturning a set of chimes in the process. The piano keys glinted prettily in the light; she was half-tempted to run her fingers along them, just for a distraction.

"Whoops! Made it," he whispered. "But seriously, I had no idea. You always seem so – I dunno. _Composed,_ haha."

 _I'm not._ She glanced at him. He was searching for a pair of drumsticks among the clutter, and somehow, the fact that he wasn't focusing on her made it easier to talk. "When I was young, I lost everything – everything that made me… me. I was betrayed. _I_ betrayed people." She paused. "I never had a real home, not like everybody else. I wasn't ever allowed to be comfortable. Even my parents – they haven't always been there. They were replacements, like everything else. And… I never trusted people again."

Suddenly, a boy's face appeared on the other side of the door. He saw the two of them sitting together, whistled loudly.

Charles gave him the finger. "Piss off!"

Rachel blushed. "Ignore him," Charles muttered darkly. "Nobody likes him."

The boy ran off.

 _I never trusted people. People like them._ "I'm afraid… because I'm different," she said. "Because I'll never be the same as you, even though I want to be."

Charles shrugged. "But we don't have to be the same – being the same is boring. I like that you're different."

She shook her head. The way he said it so _casually_ made her both smile and scream in frustration. "Not like this. When I was young they… they did things to me, and my brother, and my friends. They cut me open and made me something else. They made us turn on each other. And… that's my life. It still is. It's something that'll never go away. It's like any happiness I feel is a dream, that'll end when I wake up and I've been hiding from that my entire life. That's what I _am,_ Charles, I'm not like you—"

She trailed off.

_Her brother's hands gripping the perimeter fence. The sky, red as blood._

_Palm trees. Sunshine. Bright houses, pink, purple, green, hiding snickering faces._

_Staring out a plane window far above the ocean._

Charles was staring at her. "Rachel, I—"

A single tear splattered upon the piano keys, sparkling in the light. She wiped it away frustratedly. _Don't_. _You're sitting at a fucking piano spilling your heart out to a boy you don't even know._ But – there was something about him. Something about him that made her slightly _less_ afraid.

"Hey." Charles handed her a handkerchief. "It's clean."

She took it. Scrunched it up between her fingers.

"You're right," Charles said, "I probably don't understand. But the point is, you can _share_ being afraid. It doesn't have to go away, and it's not something to be ashamed of. I guess if it's part of who you are, you'll just have to – to live with it." He shifted in his seat. "But for what it's worth, I think it'll get better."

 _I hope so._ There was something strange about being in the music room, with the silence; it felt like there were echoes just beneath her hearing. Promises of past melodies, future laughter. Now, though, it was simply a bunch of unplayed instruments, covered in pale blue cloth. The fog loomed outside, seeming to pulse against the windows, the world unclear all the way to the horizon. She rubbed her eyes.

"Someday, you'll see what I am," she said. "And it'll scare you."

"Looking forward to it." He grinned bravely.

"I'm sorry for what happened. For being a burden."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way. It's never too late to change things, you know? Today's the first day of the rest of your life."

"Sure." _Some people have an answer for everything._ For a second, she thought she'd cry again. _It sounds so simple, when he says it._

_But he never doubted you. He just accepted it, and said he'd help, and that things would get better._

_Maybe they will. Maybe they already are._

"So… I don't wanna ruin what we've got going, but technically we have _class,_ " Charles said. "Do you wanna leave? Cause we've both been in here a while, and if somebody notices there'll be rumours faster than you can say 'Martin's gay'. Not that he is, obviously, but it was going around for a bit last year."

"I don't care."

"Ha. That's the spirit."

She waited silently, while Charles fidgeted in her peripheral vision. His presence was strangely comforting. _I think… I need to just sit for a while._ Light fell between them, a pale rectangle across the floor.

"Well," Charles began, "I guess we've got a bit of time then. I should probably do some work on my script. You can help me, if you like." He smiled. "Or not. Up to you."

* * *

Joe lay on the floor in front of Charles' TV, stretched like a crab that'd been tipped onto its back. He could see the screen upside-down if he tilted his head just right.

"That _can't_ be comfortable," Charles murmured, from a much more sensible position on a bean-bag.

"It's fine," Joe replied.

"O-kay then." Charles glanced at him worriedly, then back to the TV. The news had almost finished, which meant Star Trek reruns were about to start.

" _…in other news, the manhunt continues for a missing girl outside the city of Perth, Australia. Sarah Fraser, fifteen, is the daughter of the country's prime minister, and disappeared several days ago from a family property, sparking a state-wide investigation…"_

"That's pretty insane," Charles said. "Imagine if the president's kid went missing over here – the entire country would be searching like crazy."

Joe twisted his neck. "It's scary how people can just… vanish."

"Yeah."

 _"…Please excuse me. We are interrupting this broadcast to bring you an emergency bulletin from the state government."_ The view went black for a moment, then switched to a well-lit interview room. A military officer Joe didn't recognise stood behind a podium, an American flag draped behind him.

" _Good afternoon_ ," the officer said. " _I am General Rochus of the United States Army and Marine Corps, addressing all residents of the state of Ohio. There was been a biological contamination in your region."_

Joe glanced at Charles. "What?"

"Shh!"

_"Please, do not panic. There is not yet a cause for alarm. However, to ensure the continued well-being of our citizens, the military will be enacting an isolation protocol around many cities and towns. Note that this is not – I repeat, NOT – an attack by a hostile power, foreign or otherwise. To stem the problem at its source, the government has determined that a quarantine is the optimum course of action."_

"A quarantine? I wonder—"

"Shhh!"

 _"Please follow the orders of designated quarantine officers in your area. These orders will be made clear to you in the coming days. I know that you must have many questions and we will do our best to answer them, but for now, listen to the advice of personnel on the scene. Again, you are_ not _in immediate danger and this was not a hostile attack – however, it remains a serious health risk and should be treated as such."_ The officer nodded. _"Thank you for your attention. We hope these issues can be resolved quickly."_

The broadcast ended.

 _Well_ , Joe thought _, that wasn't freaky at all._

* * *

"No fainting," Charles said.

Joe sighed. "Just throw the ball."

They stood on opposite sides of Charles' backyard, each wielding a battered baseball glove. Charles hefted the ball and tossed it up a couple of times, letting it smack into his palm. Then he chucked it at Joe as hard as he could.

Joe stuck his glove out and barely managed to stop the ball from whizzing past onto the road. It bounced from his fingers. "Not _that_ hard!"

"Sorry! I'm, um… sorta nervous."

"Why?"

"Oh, everything. How were your exams, by the way?"

"Mostly okay." He bent down to pick up the baseball, then pitched it high towards Charles, who caught it with a satisfying _thwack._ "Science was bad. Math was good. English was average."

"Yeah, same. Thank god we don't have to worry about tests for a few weeks."

"Totally. But… I feel like I missed some stuff, after I fell unconscious."

"No kidding." Charles thought for a moment, his expression neutral.

"I didn't want to bring it up at school, but what's the deal with Rachel?"

"You mean about how she betrayed us?"

 _I wouldn't have used those_ exact _words—_

"Look, it's fine," Charles said, sighing. He tossed the ball at Joe. "It was a misunderstanding. Everybody realised that, eventually. Rachel's… I dunno. She's always trying to do things on her own. Most of the time she's right, this time she was wrong, but she still _wanted_ to help. She doesn't need _us_ to tell her she mucked up. We aren't immature six-year-olds anymore; the others all get that."

"Not like your brothers," Joe said wryly.

"Oh, they are SO bad. You have _no_ idea. Cary was kinda the only person still angry about it – you know how he gets – but I dealt with it."

"How?"

"I hit him," Charles said.

"Fair enough." Sometimes you had to, with Cary.

"What do you think?"

Joe threw the ball back, nearly clocking a bird in the process. "I'm not sure. But I'd never do what she did."

"Well, you're not most people, Joe. And you aren't _her_. It's a completely different context."

"Yeah, I know, but I never thought… We shouldn't keep talking about this, there's no point. Let's forget it ever happened."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Besides, we'd never have got this far without her. She's as much a part of this as Alice is."

"True."

"And… I think she needs us, Joe," Charles said, a little softer.

"Who – Rachel? I reckon she can take care of herself."

"Maybe. But sometimes, the people who look strong on the outside are the ones who need the most help."

Joe thought for a moment. A scene he'd never forget popped into his mind: him and Alice, watching his mother on the projector, and knowing that she was crying as she made her sudden confession. _I guess I can see that._ The ball arced across the yard, back and forth, its passage weirdly hypnotic.

"What _I_ don't understand is you and Alice," Charles added suddenly. "I mean, no offence, but you're punching WAY above your league. And perhaps me saying that is hypocritical, but surely it didn't just _happen_. How'd you do it?"

Joe gave him a suspicious look.

"Don't show me that face, I'm being serious."

"Okay." He thought for a moment. "…I think the key is I didn't try too hard."

"That's crazy! Joe, you tried _way_ hard."

"I actually didn't – I don't know why Alice likes me, or why I like her, but that's kinda how it works. It was mostly luck. Just… let it happen. Be yourself."

"Joe, I'm always myself. Charles Kaznyk don't change for anybody."

"Sure. Then is it working?" Joe asked.

Charles glared at him. "Nothing's 'working', it's hypothetical."

"Dude, _come on_." _You're being totally obvious right now._

"…Look. It's hard to tell, alright?"

"Ha! I knew it."

"There's nothing to know." Charles frowned anxiously. "And don't say anything."

* * *

Jack Lamb opened the case file and scanned the sheet of paper inside for the twentieth time. He'd picked it up during the mess in the town hall – _must've fallen out of somebody important's pocket_ – and it was, with capital letters, A Clue.

It was a message. A brief one.

**TEST**

**0907 2230 JTZ**

**CAMP HAWTHORN CONTAINMENT TENT**

_Camp Hawthorn, 2230. I've got a pretty good idea of where that might be…_

* * *

"That's where it's hiding," Joe said, sipping a Pepsi. "If an alien lifeform _did_ fly to Earth, it has to be in that house."

"'Has to' or 'probably'?" Alice asked sceptically. "You can't know for certain."

"It's a feeling."

Across the table, Cary rolled his eyes. They were parked in a booth in the corner of Carol's Diner, mid-way through a Friday afternoon snack (also known as a 'what-the-heck-do-we-do-now' planning meeting). The whole group was crammed onto the benches; even Rachel. As Charles kept saying, dwelling on the past was another reason to feel bad and nobody needed one more of those. She followed the conversation as it zipped from person to person, slowly turning a glass of water in her hands. Still, there existed a subtle hint of awkwardness, as if they were trying too hard not to be.

"Look," Joe said. "I don't wanna sound crazy, but my feelings have been accurate, for whatever reason. It's _leading_ us to that house I saw."

"For whatever reason," Alice echoed. "Which might be good or bad depending on _who's_ leading us – whether it's an alien we've met before or one we haven't. Why are they giving us all these… hints?"

"Because they're nice and _don't_ want to kill us?" Martin suggested.

Cary, very deliberately, took one of Charles' fries. "Joe, what did you say that house looked like again?"

"It was more of a mansion. Big, old, on top of a hill. Made of stone I think, and kind of overgrown. I'm pretty sure it was abandoned."

"I reckon it's the Derry house," Cary said.

"Whose?"

"There's this dude who killed himself ages ago. He lived in a huge mansion like twenty, thirty miles away. I heard about it from a group at school, they were using it for a dare or something. Apparently it's haunted."

"Great, so we should stay the hell away," said Charles. "I can deal with aliens, but ghosts are a turn-off."

"Are you kidding? Haunted stuff is _awesome—_ "

"How sure are you?" Joe asked.

"Eighty percent?" Cary shrugged. "I'll ask around, there's a girl on my street who's _way_ too into horror stories. She'll know."

Preston suddenly spoke up, staring out the window. "Telepathic leakage."

Martin glanced at him. "What?"

"The alien species must communicate via thoughts. That's what Joe experienced when he touched it, or linked with it. It's reasonable that they'd use telepathy for communication because it _is_ spectacularly efficient. 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'"

"…What?" Martin asked again.

"It's a quote. Arthur C. Clarke. When societies like the aliens advance far enough they could develop technology to allow telepathy, or even evolve it. I was wondering why Joe keeps having bizarre dreams – it's because he's been infected."

"I am _perfectly_ fine," Joe replied.

"Yes, but Cooper infected you. Has anybody read War of the Worlds?" Alice and Rachel raised their hands. "In the story, aliens invade, but they get sick and die because of Earth's bacteria – bacteria that we _evolved_ an immunity for but was totally deadly to them. It's like that concept in reverse! Joe's been infected by alien bacteria, or something, which affected his brain and apparently lets him tap into their telepathic abilities. So he's now sensitive to the clouds of thoughts floating around everywhere, which the aliens know how to manipulate and _that's_ the reason for his visions."

There was silence for a moment. Alice frowned. "Then how come I wasn't affected? Or all the other people who were kidnapped?"

"Monster-napped," Martin corrected.

"I'm not sure. Maybe because you were unconscious at the time."

"That's awfully arbitrary."

Preston shrugged. "Only a theory. But we were affected a _little,_ weren't we? The rest of us have had those dreams too. I reckon it's just more severe in Joe's case."

Charles slurped on his drink, arms crossed. "So are we going to this house or what?"

"It's a bad idea," Alice said.

"It's a GOOD idea," Cary retorted.

Martin wasn't convinced. "Both?"

"We should at _least_ check it out," Joe urged. "If I'm right, we can keep tabs on it, or sick the military on whatever's hiding inside. Or make friends with it – who knows."

"Who knows," Martin said glumly. "I _hate_ being clueless about everything."

"And Smartin finally admits it," Cary replied. He turned to Rachel. "You're coming, right?" he asked, without a second thought.

She froze, taken aback. "Uh – if you want me to."

Charles nodded. "If we're entering the enemy's lair we'll need all the help we can get." He slapped Cary's hand away from the fries. "And if this was a movie, here comes the montage of the heroes gearing up 'cause I want us to be ready for _anything_."

* * *

In seven houses, seven hands reached for seven battered backpacks. In went flashlights (with extra batteries), water bottles, coils of rope, snacks, bandages, compasses, pen and paper. Charles packed his camera. Cary took his lockpicks. Preston dug out an old boy scout's survival book, added a whistle and a box of matches, then packed the book for good measure _just_ in case they needed to tie twelve different types of knot. Rugged clothes were the order of the day: jeans, jackets, sneakers. Martin decided that several layers of underwear was advisable (for the cold, obviously. No other reason).

And then, it was time to go.

* * *

"Dad, can I borrow this?" Rachel asked.

He stared at the object in her hand. "It, ah… depends on what you're using it for."

"Protection. Last resort."

"Then promise me you'll be careful. Don't get hurt, and don't get anybody else hurt either."

"I promise," she said seriously.

He nodded uncertainly, then gave her quick hug. "I realise life hasn't gone the way we intended lately, but… if they're your friends, they won't care."

"I know."

"I never wanted to make things difficult for you. Sometimes, I make mistakes, but I don't want to get between you and—"

"I know." She stepped back with a smile. "I love you."

He blinked in surprise. "I love you too."

Suddenly, she found herself thinking of Charles; she could hear his voice in the corner of her mind, standing up for her in the town hall, protecting her, siding with her instead of his friends. She saw him smiling in that bashful, tentative way, at odds with his usual confidence. _He's always believed me, even though he never had a proper reason to. Always accepted me for who I am, one hundred percent._

_I won't waste a second chance._

* * *

This was, Joe reflected, probably the _last_ time they could use the 'we're filming a movie' excuse. Jack had been reluctant to let him go, citing the military and the murders and a thousand other dangers, but in the end he'd grudgingly agreed.

"Be back by ten," Jack said firmly.

"OK."

"Who's driving you?"

"Mr Dainard."

"And how's he fitting seven kids in his automobile?"

"Um…"

"Well, perhaps he's hired a bus." Jack snorted. "Do you really need a twenty-pound backpack?"

"Yeah, for props." He hefted it over his shoulder. Playing twenty questions with a cop for a dad was never very fun. "Actually, there's… something else."

"Which is?"

"There's a woman I think you should meet. She knows a bit about what's happening." The words tumbled out of his mouth. "I tried calling her again today, and she didn't answer, and I think she's in danger."

"Why? Who is she?"

"She's… a friend. One who isn't supposed to talk to us. But she did. She's a scientist with the government, her name's Mirka. I promise we haven't been sneaking around but—"

"Mirka, Mirka…" Jack narrowed his eyes. "I think I've seen her. She kicked me out of my own crime scene. Blonde hair, funny accent. You say she's helping you?"

Joe nodded.

"Okay. I'll track her down. And _then_ you can tell me why you're chatting with 'scientists' when you're supposed to be minding your own business."

* * *

 _Like father, like son_ , Jack thought. _It'd be hypocritical of me to stop him, considering what I've been doing, but I want him to be safe._

 _He's tenacious, too. Stubborn. Dives right in, like his mother. Ever since the summer, he's been different – so much more sure of himself._ "He wants to do what's right," Jack murmured. "Can't blame him for that."

He fetched the car keys, getting ready to leave, a folded map in his hands.

* * *

The house stared down at them from the summit of Derry Hill with eyes made of shadow. It had the appearance of a place long-abandoned, sandstone bricks crumbling and dotted with moss, shattered tiles littering the ground before the entrance. Sets of windows gaped from the second storey; dark chimneys were silhouetted against the sky. Overgrown ivy disrupted its once-opulent symmetry, choking the different wings of the structure.

Joe took deep breaths as they walked, unable to escape a sense of unease. The path wound gradually up the slope. Mist wreathed the trees on either side, swirling around their feet, moisture glistening on bundled-up jackets.

"Mine's bigger than yours," Charles said, wielding a baseball bat with both hands.

"Size is irrelevant," Preston replied. "The secret is technique." He unhooked his golf club and swung it through the air. The end whooshed alarmingly close to Joe's nose.

"What technique? We only need to hit stuff. And no offence, but the fact I have actual muscles means I can hit things harder."

Cary rolled his eyes. "Sorry Charles, but blubber doesn't count—"

"I _have_ muscles," Preston said defensively. "I don't know if you've looked at my stomach recently but there's definitely an outline there."

"Only 'cause you're ridiculously skinny." Charles whacked the bat against a nearby branch; leaves fluttered to the ground. "So, we've got a bat and a golf club. What weapons did you guys bring?"

Charles had suggested the weapons idea with a distinct degree of excitement. Joe wasn't sure how much it'd help – _if things get_ that _bad, I don't think baseball bats are going to help. But if it makes people feel better…_ He dug into his pocket and pulled out a thick slingshot. "Technically, my dad confiscated it last year, but I guess this is an emergency."

"Ranged weapon. Smart," Charles said. "Why'd he confiscate it?"

"I broke a window. Two windows, actually."

"Great. Fantastic."

"Also, its ammunition could _definitely_ blind somebody." His other pocket was filled with small metal pellets, clicking and clacking while he walked.

Alice opened her backpack and grabbed a pair of long spanners, hefting one in each hand. "They're the only thing I could find," she said apologetically. "They're pretty heavy though."

Charles took a spanner and swung it round. "Sure, this'll do some damage."

"And dual wielding is objectively the best fighting style," Preston added.

"Blah blah blah what- _ever_ ," Cary interjected. "You don't stand a chance. Watch this." He whipped out a deodorant can and lighter, shook them up, and jammed his fingers on both triggers. _Whoosh!_ A metre-long jet of flame roared into the air, harsh and blinding. They recoiled from the heat.

"Woah! Stop!" Martin shouted. "You'll kill someone."

"No I won't, don't be a wuss." Still, he let off the trigger. The world was immediately far less on-fire. "Cool right?"

"I'd say it's pretty warm," Alice murmured.

Martin shook his head. "Just – point it away from me." Then he reached under his jacket and produced the largest meat cleaver they'd ever seen. Joe stared. His face was reflected in its polished silver blade.

"Now _that_ you could kill someone with," Cary said.

"What's it used for? Elephants?" Joe asked. "Humpback whales?"

"Cooking, I guess. I found it in our kitchen."

"Seriously dude, that's a _murder_ cleaver," Charles said. "The blade's wider than my head."

"It's not THAT big. Besides, it's not like I'm gonna use it." Martin lifted it experimentally, looking uncomfortably like an axe murderer. "It's not that big."

"It's friggin' _huge_ ," Cary retorted. "Although it'll be super useful if we have to chop through a rainforest."

Charles looked over his shoulder, to where Rachel was bringing up the rear. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of her jeans, purple hood drawn over dark hair. "Uh, Rachel? What did you bring?"

"This." She held out her hand. In it lay a small grey pistol.

Charles stared, mouth agape. "You brought a _gun_?!"

She gave him an _'_ obviously _'_ look.

"That's – that's an M1911A1," Cary stuttered. "Standard ar— army issue. Wow."

"Is it… safe?" Alice asked.

"If you're sensible. And know how to use it," she said quietly.

"Holy _crap_. When I said bring weapons, I wasn't expecting…" Charles shook his head. "I suppose it's good, as long as we don't have to actually…" He trailed off. The pistol was about twenty centimetres long, with a square barrel and dark brown grip. It looked _dangerous._ Powerful.

Joe swallowed. _This got serious fast. Although considering that we have no idea what we're up against, it could end up being useful? Let's hope not._

Rachel put the gun on her belt, covering it with her jumper. "Twelve bullets," she said. "Last resort."

"Yeah. Last resort."

Suddenly, the excursion didn't seem so fun anymore. They kept walking. The mansion rapidly approached, looming in the fog. _It's always the creepy places, isn't it. Why can't aliens hide in beaches? Or theme parks? I guess a house is better than a graveyard though._ Joe stretched, shifting his backpack to a more comfortable position. Ahead, Martin tried whistling a tune, off-key quavers drifting between the trees.

Suddenly, the tune _changed_ , blinding pain stabbing into Joe's forehead. He scrunched his eyes shut as flickering images burned behind his eyeballs. _Doorway. Girl. Body. Shadow. Floor._

_Mom?_

_Floor, hole, steps, tunnel, tunnel, light, face—_

It felt stronger. _Closer._ He stumbled, tripping on the grass, vision clearing. Alice spared him a concerned glance but didn't have to ask what happened. _It's becoming normal._ "It's definitely here," he croaked. "Beneath us. Maybe in a basement. Or a tunnel."

"It's _constantly_ tunnels," Martin grumbled. "Why can't there be an alien that likes towers?"

"Cause that'd be dumb, Martin," Cary said.

"No it wouldn't."

"Yes, it would."

"No."

The bickering continued along the final section of path, an unconscious reaction to the oppressive, eerie atmosphere.

Until they arrived at the house.

Joe shivered as he gazed skyward. The mansion, up close, was like a scene from a fairytale. The walkway leading up to it was cracked, weeds and dandelions poking from the gaps, roses growing in wild thickets around them. The large windows and steep roof and thick stone walls would've been beautiful once; now it was simply lonely. Pale sunlight gave it a ghoulish glow, the walls turned black by decay, splotches of original colour hinting at former prosperity. Cobwebs stretched from corner to corner, heavy with spiders.

Preston gripped his golf club tightly. "It's very large. Are we sure this is a house?"

"As opposed to what? An abandoned skyscraper?" Charles asked.

"Guys, quiet," Alice hissed.

They fell silent. The mist damped the sounds around them until only their breathing remained. A flock of birds wheeled through the sky above, distant, from another world. _You know how there's places where it feels wrong to make noise?_ Joe thought. _This is one of those. Maybe 'cause nobody's been here for so long, it's… adapted, somehow._ He stole a glimpse at the others. Cary still seemed pretty eager to get inside, though Martin's face had taken on a distinctly pale tinge. _We can't turn back now._

"Door's open," Joe murmured.

"Does that mean someone's visiting?" Martin asked nervously.

"Okay," Charles said. "Okay. Let's _try_ and be a little sneaky here, in case Joe's actually right. We don't want to make too much noise. And keep watch for anything suspicious or weird."

"We could split up. Cover more ground that way," Alice suggested.

"Are you crazy? Never split up, it's how they get you," Cary said.

"Yeah, strength in numbers." Charles tiptoed onto the porch, instinctively taking the lead. The others fanned out behind him. Rachel walked to a broken window and peered inside.

"Empty," she murmured. "There's footprints, though."

"Footprints?"

"Yes, in the dust. Two sets."

"Well, isn't that disturbing," Charles replied. He touched his baseball bat to the door and pushed. It swung inwards on creaking hinges. Together, they filed inside.

The entrance hall was long and dim, the floor covered in ancient carpet, the ceiling high above. Heavy furniture lined the walls, with the dark, solid look that suggested it'd last a hundred years. Doorways split off at regular intervals, leading to dozens more deserted chambers and corridors. Fog blended with dust in the soupy air. Although it was mid-afternoon, the sunlight didn't reach far.

"Flashlights," Charles said.

Obediently, everybody switched theirs on. Seven beams sliced down the hallway. Interestingly, there were clear signs of damage: scuffed walls, splinters, a broken table. _Looks recent,_ Joe the floor by his feet was a small, round object. He picked it up. It was a snowglobe, inside a tiny Christmas scene with reindeer and Santa Claus, white flecks swimming behind the glass.

Preston had found a newspaper and scanned the front page curiously. "This story's from World War 2," he said. "I don't think anybody's lived here for a while."

"Keep moving," Alice murmured.

They continued onwards. Joe checked the other entrances as they passed; a lounge, a study, a music room containing an old, dusty piano.

"More footprints," Charles announced. "And… oh. That isn't good."

In the centre of the hallway was a jagged, shadowy hole. It was a metre and a half in diameter and speared straight down through the floorboards, through the stone foundations of the mansion and into the earth beneath. Charles shone his flashlight into the abyss. The hole stretched further than the beam did, twisting and turning until it was lost from view.

Cary turned to Joe. "Remind you of anything?" he asked.

"Yeah. I wish it didn't."

The walls next to the pit were cracked, the plaster crumbled by an impact. A dark red swipe stained the carpet nearby. _Blood?_

"I am _not_ entering that hole," Martin said.

"I hope you don't talk to your girlfriend like that," Preston murmured.

"Dude, I'm serious, I'm claustrophobic. And you know I don't have a girlfriend."

"…Or boyfriend. I won't judge."

"I don't think we _can_ climb down," Rachel said. "It's too steep. And there's nothing to tie a rope to."

They gazed downward. It'd certainly be a tight fit with seven of them, and climbing back out would be an even greater challenge. _Plus, what if it's a dead end?_

Charles swallowed. "I vote we find another way. Joe?"

"Give me a second." He tried to remember the vision. "I'm pretty sure there's another route. A basement, or a cellar."

"Shouldn't be too hard to find," Alice said. "Let's look around – I think we're safe for now."

They wandered through the house, staying quiet just in case. Preston and Martin moved back towards the entrance, while Rachel followed Charles and Cary to the right, into a grand, frescoed dining room. Joe and Alice shimmied around the hole and continued along the main hall, towards the junction at the end.

They kept close to each other, walking slowly. Joe gripped his torch as the daylight faded, shadows deepening round every corner. It felt scarier with just the two of them. The footsteps of the others became unexpected intruders; the scuffles of wildlife in the roof made him twitch, on alert. Alice gave him an unreadable glance, her mouth a thin line.

"I can… feel something," she said.

"What?"

"It's hiding here, below us. You were right." She shook her head. "This is crazy."

"It's not crazy. It's – it's 'different'." _We're different._ He swept his torch through yet another room, over more furniture covered in ghostly sheets. A slight breeze caressed the base of his neck. He shivered.

Alice turned. "You go ahead. I'll check this area."

"Sure."

He wandered down the hallway, and entered a sitting room with a leather lounge inside. Its wide windows had been shattered long ago, the brick that'd done it surrounded by grimy glass. He stepped over it, curtains fluttering as he passed. The next door was closed and behind was a small kitchen. The oven and stove were stained with soot. _Still no stairs._ The kitchen merged with another, larger room around the corner and he turned—

His mom was standing there in front of the broken window.

But she looked… wrong. Her face was covered in ugly bruises; teeth were missing between her lips. Her clothes were ripped, torn, hanging loose. Scraggly wet hair fell across her chest.

"…Mom?" His voice came out as a strangled croak. Blood trickled down her legs. It reminded him of a nightmare from just after she'd died, where he'd imagine what she looked like on that day at the steel mill.

"Stop," he whispered.

The figure took a slow, jerking step towards him. Then another. Her eyes were black pits.

"Stop it." Joe backed away till he hit the far wall. Blood was pooling on the floor. The figure advanced. "You aren't real." But she _looked_ real, looked like she was really there, dead, mutilated, _empty_. Joe spun and fled – nearly falling – steadying himself against the wall. He burst into the main hallway. On the other side was a set of stairs leading up and he tripped into them, banged his knees, pushed himself further. His skin felt clammy. _She isn't real_. Still, he couldn't fight the inescapable urge to leap over the broken steps to the second storey of the house. He looked over his shoulder, saw a shadow at the base of the stairwell, could _hear_ her blood dripping like urine. Mist danced around him. The first door he tried opened at his touch and he darted through and locked it tight.

It was a bedroom. A girl's, with pale pink walls. He stepped away from the door, staring at it, sank to the ground in the corner. He was sweating. _It's not real. It's another one of those stupid visions. She's dead, don't let it—_

There was a knock at the door. "Joe?" Rachel's voice. "What's going on?"

Then Alice: "Joe, can you open the door?"

"There's something messing with me," he stammered.

"There's… there's nothing up here, Joe," Alice said.

"But I saw her. In the kitchen."

"Open the door, okay? We're not gonna let anything happen to you. Open the door, and we'll figure this out. There's nothing out here."

He took a few deep breaths, the terror gradually fading. His legs quivered as he climbed to his feet. Slowly, he walked to the door. Unlocked it. Opened it a crack. The two girls were waiting. Alice gave him a concerned look while Rachel slipped past and examined the rest of the room. Joe quickly locked the door once more and sat on the bed, springs creaking.

"What happened?" Alice asked. "We saw you running, and…" She trailed off.

"There's something wrong." He gazed miserably at Alice. "I saw my mom in the kitchen. I could always _tell_ it was a dream before but now… I can't _not_ react to it, when it happens."

"It's still the same type, though – we can deal with it. And remember, Charles, me, everyone else, we've experienced the visions too."

"But it's getting worse, more intense. And my mom was never in them before."

Alice knelt down. She took his hands in hers. "Joe, look at me. Don't panic. We'll—"

_Knock knock knock!_

They whirled around. "Who is it?" Alice asked.

The doorhandle twitched as somebody tried to twist it from the other side. Rachel narrowed her eyes. Suddenly the pistol was in her hands, pointed low. She took a position on the left side of the entrance.

The handle jerked again. Alice crept forwards. "Who is it?" she asked again.

" _Me_ ," Charles replied, voice muffled.

"Charles?"

" _Yeah._ "

Alice reached for the handle. Joe stood up, mouth dry.

"Don't open the door," he hissed, too late—

Charles stood on the landing outside, staring at them with a bewildered expression. "What's up?" He scratched his ear.

"See?" Alice said. "Everything's OK."

Then behind him, the shadows _moved_. His mother slipped past as Charles stepped into the room, smoothly ducking her head under the doorframe. Joe froze. _They don't see it_ , he realised. _They can't see her_. He spun around but there was nowhere to run. Black eyes focused on him, hungry and bloodshot. She glided forwards. Instinctively he clutched for absent silver on his chest as she advanced, horrifyingly quick, filling his vision. Step step step STEP STEP—

She disappeared.

Joe breathed out. She'd reached for him, almost touching, but she was gone. He blinked, his heart pitter-pattering like raindrops.

"Hey, dummies!" Cary announced from downstairs. "Guess what?"

* * *

Cary had discovered a trapdoor next to the fireplace. Their torches played over its rickety wooden steps, which descended steeply along a thin stone passage.

"Alright, who's first?" Charles asked.

"You are," Alice replied.

"Fine." He started descending without another word, touching the wall with one hand. A few stringy cobwebs barred his path and he swiped them away irritably. Joe followed and did his best to push the previous encounter from his mind.

The stairs ended in a relatively normal-looking cellar. It had clearly been untouched for years and was filled with hordes of clutter: furniture covered by pale sheets, piles of boxes and chests, old cupboards, knick-knacks, children's toys. The roof sagged slightly, a hint of moisture in the stale air. Though the room was large, it was difficult to see through the mess. Wild shadows danced around their flashlights, growing and shrinking with every step, elsewhere pitch black.

"Where to?" Charles asked.

"We're looking for another door," Joe replied. "A… passageway? It might be kinda hidden – I don't have a clear image of it." _I should_ really _write these things down._

There was a sudden high-pitched giggle.

Charles ground his teeth. "Cary, what the hell's funny?"

"Nothing."

"Then WHY are you laughing."

"Charles, I didn't. I haven't made a joke in weeks."

They spread out through the cellar, picking through the clutter.

"…Maybe it was a ghost," Cary hissed.

"Shut up."

"Maybe it was Alice."

"Noooo it wasn't."

The area was surprisingly expansive. Joe wandered to the nearest wall, running his hand along the bricks. A thick layer of dust came away beneath his finger. It seemed shocking that anybody could own this much _stuff._ He peered behind another stack of boxes, and his flashlight glinted from a pair of tarnished candlesticks.

"There's something behind here," Martin called out. He pointed at a heavy wardrobe in the corner. "Help me move it."

Charles grasped one side while Martin grabbed the other. The wardrobe was tall as both of them put together, ornately carved. The mirrored doors reflected the others' faces as they watched.

"Ready?" Charles grunted. "One. Two—"

_Tap tap._

They froze. "What was that?"

Rachel frowned uneasily. "It sounded like something inside it."

"Can't be," Alice said.

Everybody stared at the wardrobe. The doors were closed. Motionless. Joe checked the corners, sweeping torchlight over looming furniture.

"Let's just hurry and move this thing," Charles muttered. "One, two, _three_!" They pulled, bracing their feet, and with an almighty _screech_ the cupboard slid across the floor, away from the wall. More dust trickled from the ceiling. As soon as they'd made enough room Martin erupted into a fit of sneezes.

And there – newly revealed – was a mysterious metal door. It was flat, featureless, sitting flush with the wall around it.

"Interesting," Preston said. "I wonder how rich you need to be to afford secret passages." He stepped forwards, feeling the frame: there was a barely-visible gap around the perimeter of the metal but no clear handle or mechanism. He thought for a moment, then gave it a whack with his golf club.

 _BONNNGggg!_ The surface rang like a church bell. "Just testing."

"There's probably a switch, right?" Alice suggested, rolling her eyes. "Let's look around."

They split up to search the area nearby. Cary skirted the left-hand wall, slapping bricks at random in the hope one was a button. Martin experimentally tugged a rusty pipe and was very surprised when it snapped off in his hands.

"Is everyone good for flashlight batteries?" Charles called out. "Cause I think we're gonna be here a while, and I don't feel like wandering around blind—"

 _Click!_ Accompanied by a grinding noise, the door suddenly began to rise.

"Who did that?"

"Me, I think," Martin replied. "It totally was one of the pipes."

They gathered swiftly before the door. It slid upwards jerkily, disappearing into the ceiling to reveal a long, flat tunnel, arrowing into the earth.

Somebody giggled.

"Cary!" Charles barked.

He held up his hands, wide-eyed. "Seriously, it's not me."

"Then… what the hell?" They whirled to face the cellar. Combined, their seven flashlights could banish most of the darkness, but the messy stacks of furniture could've hidden any number of intruders. The flickering shadows suddenly seemed much more threatening. Joe swung his flashlight back and forth, afraid it'd land upon a woman, blood dripping—

"Stop moving!" Rachel whispered.

They obeyed. With everybody still, it was easier to search for movement. Any movement at all… but nothing stirred.

"It's just us," Charles said quietly.

"But we _all_ heard that," Martin hissed.

"It could've been the wind. Wind does weird crap sometimes."

"Charles—"

Alice gasped and spun to face the opposite corner. Her hand twitched. "I think I saw someone."

"What?!"

"I saw someone. A little girl…"

"Don't say that," Martin said worriedly. "There's no girl."

With an electric _buzz_ , her torch dimmed, flickered, then returned to full strength. Alice frowned. She stared across the room, pale as a ghost. "Maybe…"

Joe followed her gaze, forcing himself to stay calm. "We should keep going."

She grimaced. "I'm not sure that's a great idea."

"The sooner we find what we're looking for, the sooner we get out. And whatever's hidden here _matters_."

"Sure. Sure."

"And you guys all signed up for this friggin' haunted mansion mystery tour," Cary said, "so don't act surprised."

"But there's a difference between fake-haunted and literally-haunted," Preston said. "A very significant difference."

"At this point, I'm not sure it matters," Charles replied. He glanced at Joe. "Let's keep going."

The tunnel speared into blackness. It was wide enough for two to walk abreast, the bare concrete walls stained with age. Old lightglobes hung from the ceiling, thick cables between them, but there was no obvious way to turn them on. _I doubt they'd work anyway._ Joe and Charles led the way, peering into the dark, while Martin brought up the rear, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder. Their footsteps echoed with strange, high-pitched clarity.

Joe grinned a little despite their unfamiliar surroundings (or perhaps _because_ of the uncertainty). There was a sort of desperate, half-enjoyable camaraderie in sharing a crappy situation with friends. _Nobody else had to come, but they totally did. That's cool. And we're a whole lot stronger when we're together. We can do this. If we work together, we can do this._

_Plus, things haven't gone pear-shaped. Yet._

"What was this place used for?" Charles wondered. "It would've taken forever to dig this out."

Joe shrugged. "Don't rich people have panic rooms? In case of home invasions and stuff?"

"This is more like a panic tunnel."

"Bomb shelter," Rachel suggested.

"True, it's from the right time period," said Preston. "Martin, stop it."

"What?"

"Stop touching my shoulder. I _don't_ need extra help to freak out right now."

"Don't blame me. I wonder where this— look, there's a mouse."

 _Squeak! Squeak!_ It stared at them for a second, then skittered down the tunnel.

"As long as this doesn't end in some nefarious guy's murder dungeon," Alice grumbled.

"Or a sex fiend dungeon," Martin added. "That'd be bad."

"Uh-huh. Tell me, what _specifically_ makes it a sex fiend dungeon?"

"Um… if there's a sex fiend inside? You know what I mean, one of those creepy adults who drugs people."

Preston waved his torch. "Martin, I am constantly surprised by the darkness bubbling away inside you."

"What darkness? There's no darkness."

"Denying it makes it worse. Please stop touching me."

"What? I'm not—"

At that moment they emerged into a large, square chamber. It was cast from plain concrete, twenty metres to a side, thick pillars supporting the ceiling. Deep pits were sunk into the floor at regular intervals, each containing a heavy pump or boiler. Red-painted pipes zig-zagged between them. One end of the pump room was slightly lower than the other, the lower end dotted with drainage grates, the higher section containing some kind of control room: a shed-like structure with a single door and window.

The entire chamber was dormant. Once again, it appeared nobody had visited for a while.

"Snack break?" Cary suggested.

* * *

Alice took a granola bar from her backpack and munched on it thoughtfully. Joe sat beside her, on the edge of one of the boiler pits. She glanced at him; his eyes were a little bloodshot.

"You OK?" she asked.

"Never better." He grabbed his water bottle and took a sip, feet kicking against the wall of the pit. Charles and Rachel sat across the other side, while Cary balanced on the boiler itself, arms outstretched. Preston was off wandering around the lower end of the room.

Joe was changing, Alice realised. He was becoming more… not reckless, exactly, but more inclined to take risks. _Not in a Cary way, but he never really conceives of things going wrong. He thinks we can succeed at this like literal superheroes. He thinks HE has to be the one to save people, and because he's low-key about it and nobody really questions him, we all go along with it. I guess it's my fault, in a way, 'cause it all started with rescuing me._

 _The problem is, it never_ quite _goes to plan, and one day it's going to go wrong enough that one of us gets hurt, or worse. Or the next time he passes out he won't wake up._ Carefully, she put the wrapper in her bag. _We shouldn't be here. It should be adults, or a SWAT team or something. But we ARE here, because in a weird way we're convinced it's our duty. That's a little messed up._

 _And secretly… it makes us feel_ special. _It makes us feel important. It'd be hard to go back to being bored, clueless kids again after all this excitement, huh? Maybe_ that's _the real reason we're chasing shadows._

"How long have we been here?" Charles asked suddenly.

"One hour," Rachel said.

"And Alice's dad is picking us up at six…" He frowned. "We have to find this thing soon."

"It'll be fine – it won't take long to get back." Alice smiled reassuringly.

 _And Joe isn't the only one who's changed. Charles is way less try-hard these days, which probably means he isn't as insecure. I mean, I figured_ that _out on the very first night; the bossiness acts as a screen, to almost force people to like him. Now he doesn't need it as much._

 _Kinda like me._ _Rebellion can be comforting if you've got nothing else, but it turns out that being aloof and distant and abrasive_ _doesn't make people respect you – it just makes you kind of a bitch for six months. I'm definitely glad THAT phase is over._ _We never think our real selves are good enough._

"I was just thinking how strange it is, that we're doing this," she said aloud.

"Yeah, right?" Charles opened a packet of chips. "We're trying to save the world here. Someone should be paying us."

"I mean, we never all used to be friends. Honestly I used to think you guys were weird, before the summer."

"We _are_ weird," Cary said. "That's basically a compliment."

"Sure, but – what if it wasn't me here," Alice said. "What if it was Amy Gibbons instead."

Martin shrugged. "I like Amy, she's my biology partner. That'd be fine."

"But do you think things would be different?

"Um… sure. Maybe."

"What I'm getting at is, do you think this exact group of people is 'special,' in any way? Did we stumble upon this entire conspiracy by accident, or did we get involved because… because we always had to? Because of _us_. Because this is the only way it could've gone."

"Both," Joe said. "I mean, this started with an accident, didn't it? What if we'd never seen the train crash? But we're _still_ involved because everyone here wants to be – because everyone took that chance."

"Everything starts with chance," Rachel murmured. "Then you make it fate."

"Basically it's all Charles' fault for asking people to be in his movies," Cary said.

Martin rolled his eyes. "We should really start telling people to say no. I, um… I gotta pee."

"Now?!" Charles exclaimed.

"Yes, now! I'm freaking bursting."

"Then— go in the corner or something. Did you have to tell us?"

"Dude, I was trying to be courteous."

Cary snorted. "Preston! Martin's coming to pee on you!"

"… _what?_ "

"Shut up Cary! Seriously, I REALLY have to go—"

"Then go! We won't look," Charles hissed.

"You'd better not." Martin tramped towards the other end of the room, aiming for the drainage gates. Charles shook his head and propped his torch under his chin, a disembodied head floating in the dark.

 _Now_ I _have to go_ , Alice thought. She leaned back, glancing at Joe; he was staring into the distance, grinding his teeth in that strangely endearing way, as if whatever he was puzzling over got manifested as physical effort _._ She angled her torch towards him, lighting up his face in a way she could only describe as 'cute'. _It's an annoying word, but he IS_ _cute. It's a fact._

Then she saw a flicker of movement. Alice squinted. It was behind them, near one of the pump pits but… nobody was there. Nothing she could see, anyway, but the reptilian part of her brain was telling her _something_ was moving. A lack of stillness.

 _There!_ A vague outline, like half a shadow gliding through the gloom. It was roughly human-sized. _A woman?_ She had to concentrate incredibly hard to simply spot it, like trying to follow a mosquito as it flew around your bedroom – and before she could blink, she'd lost track. Alice watched a moment longer, biting her lip. _Was it getting closer?_

 _Trick of the light, maybe._ She exhaled slowly. _We're all pretty jumpy._

Then, as she watched, a few strands of Joe's hair lifted straight up, as if someone were pulling them. Alice frowned. Joe patted the back of his head; he paused, puzzled. Nobody there. Then more hair shifted, a whole handful, yanked by invisible fingers—

"Aaah!" Joe was wrenched to his feet. He clutched his head, stumbling, held by an unseen force. Alice leapt up, then froze in shock – it _was_ a woman, an outline, shimmering like a ghost.

"Joe, what is it?" Charles shouted.

"Help!" He bent forwards, trying to wrench himself free. "Help me!" Cary backed away as Joe hissed in pain. Preston and Martin looked curiously in their direction. Alice felt her legs move and before she knew it she'd drawn one of her spanners, rushed forwards, swung it instinctively at the patch of air next to Joe's head—

It _crunched_ into nothing. Surprise made her drop the weapon, clattering to the floor. Whatever it was let go of Joe; he tripped, suddenly free; then it turned to her with a flash of anger. _Crack!_ Pure force punched into her ribcage. For a second she saw stars – flew backwards across the room – hit the ground, winded, on her side. Pain flared. She coughed, managed to roll to her knees.

"Get up. Get _up_."

She staggered forwards. Joe was still on the ground, staring in fear. Charles darted closer and helped him up and together they scrambled away. Preston joined them and they began fleeing through the pump pits, Joe in the lead, Charles and Cary close behind, towards the shed at the far end of the room. She gritted her teeth and chased after them; saw Joe glance over his shoulder, his gaze skipping past her to a patch of air to her left – he put his head down and _ran_. She shivered. Her torch was cracked, the globe blown. Shadows flickered madly. Martin was still in the corner, fastening his belt.

_Come on. Come on._

They arrived at the shed. Joe tore the door open and ran inside. Alice skidded through the entrance a couple of seconds later, gasping for air, half-expecting something to hit her in the back. The others waited, confused, afraid. The inside was painted a dirty white, the roof low and claustrophobic. Shelves of old repair equipment lined one wall, the other covered by valves and control levers. She looked down, lifted her shirt; an ugly red scratch raked across her stomach. _It's not a ghost. It's something more._

"Guys! Guys, what's going on?" Martin shouted.

Grimly, Rachel drew her pistol. She walked to the doorway, planted her feet.

"What are you doing?!" Charles asked.

She turned to Joe. "Tell me where it is."

Joe shuddered; forced himself to look. "She's – she's there. Walking towards us. Straight ahead."

Rachel nodded, facing outward. She raised the gun, holding it with both hands.

 _BANG! BANG! BANG!_ Three shots, blinding flashes. A bullet _clanged_ as it ricocheted off metal. Alice saw Martin dive behind a pillar in the distance, head poking around the side. _"Guys, what the—"_

 _BANG! BANG!_ The gun leapt, unbearably sharp. Preston shrank back, twitching with each blast. Alice pressed her hands over her ears.

"Where?" Rachel asked.

"…to the right," Joe said anxiously. "She's—"

_BANG!_

The final shot made a different sound. Alice saw a spray of red erupt from the air, a person-shaped shimmer falling to the floor. Rachel lowered the pistol.

"Stop shooting!" Martin yelled.

But as she watched the shimmer _moved._ A vacant face turned towards them; it twitched, then rose smoothly from the ground, a hint of legs standing upright beneath it. Joe shoved Rachel back in panic, grabbed the shed door, slammed it shut and locked the latch.

Alice stared at the door. So did everybody else. _What the hell is it?_ she wondered. _I can see her, sort of, but the others can't._ Charles brandished his baseball bat, other hand resting on Joe's shoulder, sweating as if he'd woken from a nightmare. She felt like she was suffocating; nowhere to run.

 _Bam!_ The door shuddered as something hit it.

 _Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!_ The latch rattled, but held. They backed away till they reached the wall. Then—

CRASH! A foot-wide hole was punched through the bottom. Shards of wood burst inward. Alice squealed.

But, on the other side – there was only empty air.

* * *

The silence, somehow, was even more shocking. Cary crouched, pointed his torch at the gap.

Joe waited, breathless with anticipation. _Why is this happening to me? Whatever's down there has to be_ messing _with us, somehow – but I don't even know if this is real._ He slapped his cheek lightly. _It definitely feels real._

Then a head appeared – Martin's head. "What the heck are you guys doing?!"

"Don't open the door!" Cary shouted.

"Did you guys _break_ it? What's going on?"

"We didn't do anything," Alice said, surprisingly calmly. "It's trying to come in."

"There's nothing out here!" Martin shook his head in confusion, then disappeared, searching for another way in. They stared at the opening. It was still relatively small – too small for an adult to fit through.

"Martin?" Cary asked. "Martin, are you OK?"

No reply. _Come on, think_ , Joe told himself. _If you aren't going crazy, there must be a way to stop it. It's like – if somebody breaks into a bank, you can figure out how they did it and block them off next time. Except it's your brain instead of a bank and you have no idea how this works._ He tried to remember how it'd felt when the alien had held him in the tunnels, that strange blend of translated emotion and shared experiences—

Suddenly, a child appeared on the other side of the door: a boy, maybe ten years old. He locked eyes with Joe.

_It's changed._

The boy hissed with bared teeth, then started crawling through the hole.

"I – I see it!" Cary screeched. "It's a kid!"

Joe twitched in surprise. "You can—"

"Yeah, and it's friggin' creepy! Charles, gimme the bat!"

Joe stumbled sideways, putting more space between him and the creature. It wriggled, struggling, pulling itself with stick-like arms. Its sunken gaze never left his face, its skin bone-white.

_Wait. Wait a second. I think that's… the boy who died from school. And if I'm seeing my mom too… is it using memories, somehow? Manipulating dead people?_

Joe stared at the monster. And there was a connection there, a web of memories; a frantic tingle as if someone had blown on his naked brain. He followed it.

The boy crawled closer.

 _Dad was really quiet on the day they found him. I remember seeing him at school. He was younger, though, so I never really talked to him. Before that… didn't he come to our house once? Yeah, he was really shy, but he gave me a—_ He raced along the web until he arrived at an object _pulsing_ in his mind. It felt like a star, almost, spinning and wobbling, an invisible sense of wrongness bubbling underneath conscious thought.

Joe balled his fists, seized the feeling, and squashed it.

* * *

' _INTERVIEW FILE 8941A, SUBJECT 0: Interview subject stated that the antagonist fired indiscriminately. Antagonist was familiar to subject. Had shown no prior signs of mental illness. However, antagonist appeared to change behaviour in a manner similar to sufferers of schizophrenia. Quote: 'It wasn't him. His eyes were blank. He [shot at] everybody like he didn't know who they were. As if they weren't even there.' Subject stated disbelief at occurrence. Transcriber notes that further investigation is required.'_

**— _An excerpt from a police interview, dated October 1979._**

* * *

"It's gone," Joe said. "It's gone."

Cary breathed out. "Then where'd it go?"

He shrugged. When he'd attempted to quash the memory, he'd felt the connection _snap_ – not just his own, but hints of others too, to Cary, to Alice, maybe more – an invisible tangle of threads, fallen silent. "Preston, I think you were right."

"About what?"

"The telepathy idea."

"Oh," he said, too freaked out to care. "Cool. Let's hope this never happens again."

Alice sighed. She sounded exhausted. "Don't count on it."

* * *

The ladder descended through a shaft, into the darkness below.

"We have to keep going down," Joe said. "It's the right way, I think."

"At least _try_ to sound certain," Martin replied.

They'd found the ladder in the opposite corner of the pump room and it seemed the only obvious exit. A single bullet-hole cracked the wall above it.

"Alright, then let's go," Charles said. "Everybody be careful. We don't know where this leads."

One by one, they climbed downwards. Cary managed to hold his flashlight between his teeth, providing light enough for all of them. (" _It's because he's got a big mouth_ ," Martin muttered.) Their backpacks scraped against the tight-walled shaft. The rungs were damp and flaked with rust, and soon Joe heard the sound of running water.

The shaft emerged into a pipe. It was circular, a couple of metres in diameter, tall enough to stand in. There was a steady flow of water through the centre, roughly a foot deep, its surface hard and black in the shadows. The pipe sloped downwards towards a distant junction.

On one side was a raised concrete path and cautiously, they spread out along the walkway. Water dripped and echoed from the ceiling, a slippery layer of brown muck plastering every surface.

"What is this place?" Alice asked.

"Probably Dayton's water supply," Preston said. "There was a water treatment plant near the bottom of the hill. I bet this is connected to it."

"…Then why'd we have to start up at the house? Couldn't we have found a more direct way in?"

"Who knows – maybe it's hard to access."

They peered along the pipe. Joe's torch was getting a little dim, so he took a moment to replace the batteries. The newly-bright beam sparkled off the water. It didn't _look_ like sewage, at least, but every few seconds a chunk of unidentifiable debris would float past on the current.

"The path keeps going that way," Charles said, "and _I_ don't wanna get wet, sooo…"

They followed the path. It led downwards for an interminable length of time, the pipe lancing through the earth. The water level never changed from its constant, bubbling flow; the air perpetually heavy with the scents of rot and mould. They must've walked for several hundred metres before they reached the first junction.

Here, the pipe intersected with another, identical waterway. A piece of wire mesh had become lodged in the opening, collecting rubbish as it tumbled downward. Joe saw a rubber duck floating in the muck, oddly colourful.

"Which way?" Charles asked.

"Down," Joe replied.

"Should've guessed."

The new pipe continued, same as the previous. Every now and then they'd pass the base of another ladder, or a set of steps with a locked door at the top. One flashlight was kept pointed behind them at all times to make sure nothing sinister could creep too close. Cary skipped ahead to the next junction, footsteps resonating in the dark.

"Another pipe!" he called out. "This one's bigger."

It _was_ bigger – more than twice the size. Instead of a circle it was square in cross-section, with concrete walkways on either side. The roof towered above them. Joe crouched down next to the water and shone his torch into the distance. "Let's keep going."

"How do you know?" Charles asked.

"I just… do."

"Alright. I mean, it's not like we have a better idea— Cary, don't!"

Joe heard a brief scuffle behind him and whirled around to see Charles seize Cary's shoulders. "He was going to push you in," Charles said darkly.

"Charles, I was only _pretending._ "

"Then don't! We already have enough crap to worry about."

The pipe – more of a canal, really – levelled off, the water flowing more slowly. Puffs of white foam bobbed on the surface. The air was growing warmer, more humid. Charles dragged his bat along the ground, clinking and clonking on bits of broken concrete. They stumbled upon a trio of mice who abruptly vanished into a crack in the mortar.

"We never talked about what we'd do," Rachel said suddenly.

"Do when?"

"Whenever we find the source. The alien."

"Um…" Charles thought for a moment. "…Improvise?"

"What if that isn't good enough?"

Joe glanced at the girl, silently agreeing. _At least one of us is actually thinking ahead._ "It's sort of difficult to plan for. We don't know if it's going to be friendly or not," he said.

"Then make two plans," she replied. "Ideally more detailed than 'make friends' versus 'hit it with a golf club'. It's beneficial."

"Okay," Charles grunted, with mock annoyance. "Then what would YOU do?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you – if you're so good at making plans."

"Uh…" She paused, thinking.

"Exactly. _Exactly._ Sometimes, I feel you guys don't give me enough credit. Organising and getting people to do stuff is hard _._ "

Suddenly, Joe realised that the walls of the canal had changed. Sometime in the last couple of minutes, rough patches of black mould had begun to appear on the concrete. The next time he passed one he poked it with his slingshot; the surface was hard, powdery, like fired clay.

"Make sure we have an escape route," Rachel was saying. "A fast one. We can't— _shouldn't_ waste another hour climbing to the surface."

Charles nodded. "Yeah, I get it, I really do, but how can we map a route if we don't even know where we're going in the first place?…"

Soon, every wall was covered by the organic black substance. Joe looked up. So was the ceiling. It had taken on a wax-like appearance that oddly reminded him of cake icing. _Probably doesn't taste as good though._ "I think we're getting close," he said, gesturing at their surroundings.

"Woah," Martin breathed. "Weird."

"Try not to touch it," Alice said, "just in case."

The black wax grew thicker and thicker, spreading across the walkway, building up along the water till it was like they were walking through one of the alien tunnels beneath the cemetery. The surface was smooth, slippery, making it easy to fall. Preston cracked a piece with his golf club and placed it in his bag.

The canal curved slightly until it reached yet another intersection. This one, though, was different: the wax had built up in such a way to divert all of the water down one path, leaving the remaining pipes dry. Through one of them Joe could see the barest hint of daylight. _Yeah. That's its lair._ "Get ready."

One by one, they drew their weapons. The motley collection was faintly ridiculous, save for Rachel's pistol and Martin's mammoth cleaver.

"Everyone stay close," Charles said. "We gotta be prepared for anything."

Quietly, they filed down the pipe. It was small enough that most of them had to duck, heads knocking the ceiling.

"Why'd the chicken cross the road?" Cary hissed, out of nowhere.

Charles rolled his eyes but took the bait. "…Why?"

"To get to the ugly person's house. Pretty funny right? Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"The CHICKEN."

Gradually, the spark of daylight grew stronger until they were finally able to switch off their flashlights. The pipe sloped downwards, steeper and steeper, until it—

"There's a room up ahead," Charles whispered. "The pipe ends, and drops into a huge… cave?"

Preston twitched excitedly. "Oooh, what's in there?"

"Um… something? I can't really see, the sun's super bright." Charles crouched, grabbed the sides of the pipe, and with a soft _scrape_ he slithered through the opening. A moment later they heard his sneakers hit the dirt. _"It's alright,"_ he whispered. _"But stay stealthy."_

They dropped like really bad ninjas into the cavern. The pipe exited near the innermost end, and a few heaped boulders provided cover from prying eyes. Joe crept forwards, hiding behind the obstructions – and couldn't help an icy shiver running down his spine.

The scene was _exactly_ like he'd imagined. Despite himself, he was a little surprised they'd actually found it.

The chamber was man-made, stretching as far as their school gymnasium, but the black, lumpy substance which now enveloped it gave it a more biological appearance. At the far end was a circular outlet through which water could escape, currently blocked by thick steel bars. Sunlight streamed through the opening. The outside world was barely visible amidst the glare, which silhouetted the strange… figures that lay before it.

The largest was a dark, bulbous mass. It was, Joe thought, roughly elephant-sized, with a body that pulsed and throbbed in the shadows. A web of roots (tentacles?) connected its abdomen to the earth, its thick legs splayed wide in support. Irregular green orbs dotted its exterior, glowing in strange, faint patterns. It had the appearance of something that lived at the bottom of an ocean – a creature from a deep, dark abyss which had never felt the warmth of the sun, and never would.

Gathered around it were dozens of smaller creatures, lower to the ground. Their tails flicked lazily in the gloom.

 _"What do we do?"_ Cary mouthed.

"We shouldn't surprise it," Charles whispered. "Just… be calm." They each took a couple of deep breaths. The creature was certainly different to the one they'd encountered during the summer – and it wasn't every day you got to meet a new alien species.

Joe felt his heart start to race. _If it's responsible for the 'ghosts' we saw, it might not be particularly friendly. Although I guess our first impressions of the other alien were pretty bad too._ He smiled tersely. _I mean, Cooper tried to eat us. Nearly anything's an improvement._

"I am struggling to find words to describe this," Preston murmured.

"Nerve-wracking?" Martin suggested. "Mesmerising? Terrifying?"

" _Wild_ ," Cary said.

 _When people gaze at the stars, they often wonder what's out there…_ _and here's the answer. That's pretty wild, alright._

_Or possibly gnarly?_

Before they could dwell any more on it, Charles stepped out from behind the rock and began walking towards the sunlight. With a scuffle of feet, the others followed.

Joe felt his sneakers sink into the ground; he looked down and saw it was covered in thick, springy cilia, or hairs. They were black like everything else and waved gently, each patch rippling like grass in the wind. More patches hung from the walls, the ceiling. It gave him the eerie impression of being inside something alive.

Sometime last year, he'd watched a movie called _The Magnificent Seven._ In it, a group of gunfighters were hired to protect a village from marauding bandits (Charles later explained it was a remake of an earlier, apparently better movie called _Seven Samurai_ ). Joe couldn't help remembering it as they crept forwards, holding their weapons; unfortunately, it'd ended with a number of noble sacrifices. He legs were bursting with energy, ready to run.

When they were twenty yards away from the creature, there was a long, soft _hiss_.

It stirred. Its body didn't move, exactly, but the substance it was formed from seemed to flow and _shift_ – reordering itself – becoming larger, thicker, facing them with a huge, globular head. Fat emerald eyes appeared on its face – eight, nine, all different sizes, staring directionlessly around a gaping mouth. Myriads of tentacles unfurled from its back and sides to form a shivering, wavy forest. Harsh daylight streamed through the iron bars behind it, through its tentacles, casting pale sunshafts across the cavern floor. Joe squinted. The glare was overpowering. It cast the creature in shades of grey, indistinct and threatening.

The smaller creatures raised their heads, gazing at the intruders. Their appearance made Joe think of lizards: skeletal, twisted versions of the geckos he saw at home. _Except they're as big as I am. Oh, yeah, and they've got six legs._

The group stopped. Preston gripped his golf club with knuckles turned white, staring at the formless alien. Joe's sneakers _crunched_ unexpectedly. There, beneath his shoes, was a scattering of pale bones. A ribcage. An arm. A small round skull gazing emptily at the ceiling. His stomach flipped. _Those are human bones. And it isn't an adult – that's—_

Instantly, his mother warped into existence before them. She stood, frozen, her eyes blank as the skull's. But this time, she looked more as he remembered, her skin smooth and unblemished, blue dress flapping in a non-existent breeze. Alice shuddered.

From the gasps of the others, apparently they could see her too. Charles glanced away with unexpected pain in his eyes.

Then her mouth fell open, and the apparition _screamed._ Not a physical scream, but a shriek that emanated from inside their heads, a robotic squeal brimming with unearthly, electronic static. They recoiled, covering their ears but the noise continued unabated. _It's not her_ , Joe told himself. _Keep saying it. It isn't her._

Her mouth snapped closed.

And then – finally – she spoke.

"I… smell… you," Elizabeth said. There were halting pauses between her words, as if she was having trouble forming the syllables, but it was definitely _her_ voice. The recognition sent shivers across Joe's neck.

A pause. Water dripped somewhere in the cavern.

Slowly, Joe realised the others were waiting for him to talk. He faced the spectral figure. "What – what do you mean?" he asked, stuttering.

"I smell… you. Smell… ess—essence… of other. Other was… there. Other was… with you."

Joe swallowed. "Other?"

"Watashi-wa…"

Elizabeth's eyes glazed over. Rachel frowned.

"Watashi— I name… you name it _Cooper_."

"Ohhhhh," Preston murmured. "I see."

The alien shifted, its bulk spreading over the floor. Elizabeth stepped forwards. As she spoke, strange glitters played across the alien's eyes, creating a hypnotic backdrop. "You were… touched… by it. You are… unique. You… _intrigue_ … me…"

Joe tried to think. _Somehow, it_ knows _we met the other alien? Is that why it's been invading my head?_

"I… watch," Elizabeth intoned. "We smelled you when— when we come. We were… drawn to… its scent? Drawn to you. Because of Cooper… yes." Suddenly, she raised a finger towards Rachel. "And you… you are… different. Different? _Different._ Threat?"

Rachel narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. The alien was gradually improving its speech – the pauses were less regular, the words clearer. _It's learning. And it seems to want to communicate. After all, we 'intrigue' it._ Joe couldn't help feeling pleasantly surprised it hadn't immediately tried to eat them.

Suddenly, another figure shimmered into existence: a man, tall, with thick dark hair. He waited next to Elizabeth in the same paralysed pose. _Have I seen him before? I wonder…_ The cilia on the cavern floor fluttered round their feet and nervously, they stood their ground.

"Joe," Cary hissed. "Ask it what it is."

Joe opened his mouth, then closed it again. _"You_ ask it."

"But—" Cary gulped. He turned towards the creature, and said loudly: "What are you?"

The dark-haired man blinked. "I am… me."

"That's helpful," Martin muttered.

"No, I mean – are you an alien?"

"Alien? Concept strange. Closed… closed-minded. But it may help… you understand." He spoke with a thick Polish accent. "I am… us. We are many. Connected, connected. We are _not you_."

"Yeah, we figured that," Charles said. "So, if you're aliens, where'd you guys come from?"

"Not important," the man replied.

"But you had to travel from somewhere else to get here, right?"

"Distance… irrelevant," Elizabeth interrupted. "Stars. Galaxies. Far away. Irrelevant. Us have… always existed here. Always will exist."

"But can you tell us where you came from?"

"Yes."

"…and will you?"

"We are of… the void. The _purple_ void. Meaningless to you."

"But—"

"Charles, drop it," Alice murmured. She glanced at the alien. It hadn't budged. Unless it was her imagination, the eyes on its body were slowly moving, changing in size. _Okay. Okay. Keep it talking. I mean, we still have no idea what the hell we're dealing with, but the more we find out, the better. Let's try and avoid pissing off the monster._ For a moment, the unreality of the scene threated to overwhelm her. _I can't believe we're actually talking to…_

_Stay calm. Be brave! If the others can, you can too._

"What are they, then?" Alice asked, pointing to one of the lizard-like creatures.

A dog appeared: a bull mastiff with huge, slobbery jaws. "Woof!"

She frowned.

"Woof!"

"They're… like dogs?"

"Woof!" The dog vanished.

"Not important," the man said. He nodded slowly.

"Why not? They're helping you, aren't they?"

"Such… castes do not worth mention. Bear mention."

"But _you're_ important?" Alice asked.

"I…" The man frowned. Green glittered on the creature's skin. "…struggle," he said eventually. "Yes. Now. Past. Us. Struggle. Important. Important. Struggle."

"I think you broke it," Cary whispered.

"I'm just glad we can talk to it," Preston hissed back. "And we should really figure out what we wanna know in case it decides to _stop_ talking."

"Ask it if it wants to be friends," Martin said.

"Ask it why they came to Earth," Rachel added.

Charles nodded. "You guys keep going. I'll get the camera out." Very slowly, he removed his backpack and placed it in the floor. For a moment, the sun ducked behind a cloud and the alien became a little more visible. It was even bigger than Joe had thought; its enormous bulk was covered in glistening, wrinkled skin, with a sickly grey-purple tinge. A pungent fertiliser smell wafted through the cavern, tickling his nose.

"Why are you here?" Joe asked.

After a pause, a third figure appeared: a young girl. She had a beautiful round face with dark brown hair, wearing a purple sweater. "You… called us," she said.

"That's not what I meant. Why—"

"You called us," she repeated blankly. "We respond. Your intentions were… unmatched. Not a match… to ours. But we are grateful. We know now… that you are sufficiently developed."

"Developed?"

A boy materialised beside the girl, to mark four spectral figures standing in the cave. "Your call was a sign," he murmured.

"That's him!" Cary exclaimed, "that's the ghost kid—"

Joe frowned. "Sign of what?"

"Sign of your readiness. And then there… was… another. Cooper? Strange designation." The child tilted his head. "We detected his fleeing. His flight. Always listening, are we. Yes. Accelerated process."

"What process?" _I feel like I'm repeating myself._

"Process of our arrival. Cooper race is known… for interference, for interfering with process. They… are annoying. Annoying." Its tentacles flickered, and one swung right _through_ the boy's form with an eerie lack of resistance.

 _Annoying, huh?_ _Weird choice of words._ "And why are you actually here?" Joe continued. "What are you here to do? What's your purpose?"

"To harvest you," Elizabeth said neutrally.

"…harvest?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

"Only life can reverse decay. Decay. Yes, _decay_. The… universe dies. Natural process. Entropy." Her gaze flicked to Preston. "Big crunch."

"Oh, right." He flinched. "The big crunch."

"Life contains energy," the girl added. "Life. Energy. Soul? Strange word. Adequate. Consciousness changes… the universe. Souls can reverse entropy. Process required for… survival. Cycle. Long cycle. Aeons. Constant… war. Fight. Conflict against the night."

"And what does _that_ have to do with harvesting us?" Alice asked.

" _You_ are life," the boy said. " _You_ can be harvested. To allow others to… continue the cycle. For others to survive. We must harvest."

"I don't like how it keeps saying 'harvest'," Rachel murmured.

"Preference is meaningless. Others rely upon… us. Countless others across this galaxy. For our survival, we _must_ harvest. Certain lives must pass… conversion processes must occur. It is inevitable. Only life can reverse decay. It is… for… a greater good."

"Alright, fine," Charles replied. He blinked nervously, the camera propped on his shoulder. "But what happens to us in all this?"

"You die. Your world must be harvested."

Its words dripped across the cave, young and innocent.

"We _die_?!" Cary exclaimed. "As in, everybody?"

"All? Yes. You are confined to… this world. All will die in the harvest."

"Woah, back up a second," Martin said, "I don't feel well."

"Who cares!" Charles shouted. "This thing says it's gonna _murder_ us!"

Yet another ghost took shape before them; this time a young woman with Latin American features. She narrowed her eyes. "Murder?"

"Yeah, that's what it's called when you kill people. _Why_ are you—"

"You have to die. There is no question. Otherwise it will end."

"But _why?_ "

"Your souls are… payment for others' survival. Billions. Trillions. Countless. Greater good. Will, preference… is… not important in such a transaction. Sad? Yes, sad, perhaps. Emotion is not objective. Emotion is unnecessary. You must be harvested. This is… objective—"

"Time out! Time out," Charles interrupted. He beckoned, and together they formed a nervous half-huddle away from the spectral figures. Joe kept one eye on the alien as it waited by the outlet. It was hard to tell if it was paying attention to them, or if it simply didn't need to. Lizards prowled around the cavern like water.

"Holy crap," Martin said, "I thought the _last_ alien was bad."

"That frickin' thing is saying we have to die?" Cary hissed. "Fuck that. 'Objective' my ass."

Preston nodded. "It seems to think it's doing the right thing, but the reason it's giving is very unclear – there's no way that _entropy_ could be… there's no way. Is there? Hmm. It doesn't make a lot of sense."

"If it's going to kill everyone, why is it talking to us so nicely?" Alice asked.

"Maybe it doesn't care." Joe shrugged. "I mean, if it's gonna do it anyway… or it could still be preparing? It's probably fairly difficult to murder an entire planet. _Humans_ haven't managed it yet and we've already got enough nuclear weapons for it."

"Then we should stop it, right?" said Martin. "Like, prevent it from attacking?"

"How?"

They gazed at the creature. It towered above them, its fan of tentacles stretching lazily in the shadows.

"I've got three bullets. I don't think that'll cut it," Rachel murmured.

"Deodorant can flamethrower?" Cary suggested.

"No way dude, it's _huge_ ," Charles replied. "We gotta get out of here so somebody else can deal with this – the freaking air force can help US for a change. I say we escape and nuke the entire place from the sky. It's the only way to be sure."

Martin grimaced. "We don't even know how many of these things are out there. This is the first time we've seen one, for god's sake."

"Exactly! And it's already said it's gonna murder the entire human race! This escalated real quickly!"

Quietly, they sidled back towards the creature. The fertiliser smell was growing stronger.

"So you're saying we have to die," Alice called out. "Why? Why us?"

"Your species… removal… removes a potential problem. It is logical to harvest you at this time," the woman said.

"Why?"

"…what is your name?"

Alice thought for a moment. "Humans. We're humans."

"Humans. Interesting designation. Irrelevant." The ghost blinked. "Humans are… warlike? Yes, warlike. Aggressive. Potentially dangerous to many others. Your removal is logical; thus first in line for harvest. This is 'why'. Your minds are… unusual… unexpected from such seeds. Our seeds. Common seeds may flower in different ways. Some flowers… are weeds. Must be trimmed." The ghost smiled. "Metaphor."

"We aren't _that_ aggressive," Charles retorted. "You're more 'warlike' than us – you're the ones coming here to kill us."

"No."

"No? That's it?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said flatly.

"But we're not _all_ bad! Most people are good."

"Irrelevant. There is evidence."

 _I guess we treated Cooper pretty badly,_ Joe thought. _And who knows what messages the military's been sending them? But… it's wrong. It's wrong about humans. How can we convince it otherwise?_

"You mentioned the 'greater good,'" Joe said cautiously. He stepped forwards, towards the monster. "What if the greater good doesn't involve harvesting us?"

"Harvest is… inevitable," his mother said. "Necessary. Greater good."

" _I_ think you're wrong. And if you're really concerned about doing the right thing, you should listen to what we have to say."

Elizabeth's gaze stared right through him to the darkness at the chamber's rear. He looked down and walked past; she was insubstantial as a memory. The other ghosts twitched. He began to feel something _probe_ at his mind, a web of threads, like the one he'd felt in the pump room. _Keep it under control. Stay calm._

The bulk of the creature loomed, silhouetted before the opening. "You lack knowledge to… provide… useful contributions."

"How do you know?"

"We… know. We observe. You are aggressive. Your lives… valuable."

"If we're valuable, then why kill us?"

"Greater good. War must continue. Many others rely upon… prolonging this."

The lizards watched him approach, tails twitching, but weren't yet overly agitated. Its skin glistened, lit by the faint green glow of dozens of pustular orbs.

"Joe, what are you doing?" Alice hissed.

 _I have to touch it,_ he thought. _I have to touch it, like when Cooper grabbed me. If it operates in a similar way, that'll make it understand. Then we'll BOTH understand each other._ _I hope._ Slowly, palm open, he reached out with one hand. The creature was close, the fertiliser stench overpowering. He had to tilt his head back to take it all in at once – the tentacles, the strangely spherical head, the flowing, indistinct thorax.

"Can I touch you?" he asked.

"…touch?" the boy replied.

"Yeah."

Joe assumed the ensuing silence was it thinking.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Caution should… be observed."

_Caution? Feels kinda late for that. For one thing, I'm standing a couple yards away from a humongous hellish alien._

He narrowed his eyes. Its skin was smooth, slimy, its spindly arms barely visible beneath its flesh, pressing against the black-wax floor. His nose burned.

 _…I guess I can give it a shot._ He gritted his teeth, then jumped forwards.

Realistically, it would've taken half a second to cover the distance. But before he'd even made it half-way – a pair of tentacles _whipped_ forwards and slapped into his ribcage, throwing him backwards in an instant. He spun sickeningly through the air. His chest burned. He kept expecting to hit the ground, the tentacles pushing him along but never quite did until – _thud!_ – he skidded on his side across the concrete.

"Joe! Joe, are you okay?"

"…Ow." Everything hurt. Charles helped him up, pulled him back, away from the creature. He rubbed his head. His shirt had _ice_ crystals across the front, vapour rising from the fabric. _That thing is COLD_.

From the front of the cavern came a long, deep, groan; the alien seemed to _grow_ in size, arching upwards, its body expanding till it nearly blocked the entire outlet with its quivering, shapeless mass. Tentacles writhed like palm trees in a gale. They staggered backwards as a sudden squall gusted round the chamber.

"Hooo-lyyy _shit!_ " Cary exclaimed.

Martin looked ill. "Guys, we should go."

Rachel put one hand on her pistol.

And the lizards advanced, suddenly alert. _We're surrounded,_ Joe realised. He glanced over his shoulder. _They're moving in behind us, cutting off our escape route._ They weren't as large as their commander but still a good two metres from head to tail. In the chaos, the ghosts had vanished.

"We want to be _friends_!" Alice called out. "Don't you understand that? We don't want to fight you! Please!"

"…Friends? No. You are only harvest."

"Then we'll stop you! We won't let you just—"

"You cannot stop."

"Where are the others?!" Charles shouted. "How many of you are there?"

"Many. Few. Not important."

 _We probably should've_ started _with that question, 'cause I think a whole bunch of people around the world are about to have a whole bunch of problems._

"Tell us!" Charles pushed. "Where are they?"

"Not important. Now you die."

"Wait—"

"You are… annoying… like it you encountered. The harvest begins with you. It will be easy. Now you… die. Your life… shall preserve." It seemed to breath an airy, whistling sigh. "Now die." The words echoed in their heads, cold, inevitable. "Now _die._ "

Cary immediately whipped out his deodorant can and lighter and sprinted towards the alien. "AAAAAAAAHHHH!" He clicked the lighter and – _whoosh!_ – a bright orange jet of flame roared into the air. Whorls of fire licked towards the alien. His legs pumped. Cary spun the flamethrower, aiming right at its chest; the creature raised another set of tentacles, drew them back and swung them low across the ground. They _blurred_ through the air towards him—

 _BANG!_ Rachel fired. Somehow, one shot _thwacked_ into a tentacle. The creature recoiled. An eerily-human shriek reverberated through the cavern. _BANG!_ Clear fluid burst from its body. The alien darted forwards, incredibly quickly, its body seeming to slip and slide and ripple across the stone, the shadows themselves longing for their deaths.

Cary stumbled, dodging the remaining tentacle. He backed away, still yelling; the can clattered from his hands. Joe whirled around. _How the heck do we get out of here_? Martin and Preston were furthest back, attempting to approach the entrance pipe. The lizards were uncomfortably close.

"Come on, let's go!" Joe shouted.

"I'm coming!" Charles was trying to stuff something into his backpack – his camera. The alien slithered towards him.

"Let's _go!_ " Joe grabbed his shoulder.

Then, one of the lizards leapt at Martin. Somehow he saw it and ducked on reflex, the cleaver in his hands – claws scratching at his face – he swung upwards with a panicked yell and – _snick! –_ the blade chopped clean through its tail. Martin fell sideways, weapon slicked with liquid; the lizard flew over him and landed on its feet, its maimed limb writhing back and forth. Scales glittered in the gloom. Preston stood, frozen, then swung his golf club at the creature and it skittered away.

At the front of the cavern, the alien groaned _._ Its tentacles curled into its body, like a flower blooming in reverse – then sprang outward. _CRASH!_ The floor, the walls, every surface vibrated as three-dozen black arms impacted in unison. Concrete cracked. The cavern trembled. Joe fell to the ground, skinning his knee. Chunks of debris began tumbling from the ceiling, stone and wax shattering, the strange hairs quivering in panic. _Bam! Bam!_ He flinched as a cement panel smashed apart beside him. _Aaaah!_ He climbed to his feet, saw Alice to his left, ran over to her as dust clouded the air.

"Hey! Alice!"

"Can't hear you!" she shouted hoarsely. She pointed at her ear.

"I – we—" He coughed. "We can follow Martin!"

Rachel materialised from the shadows beside them. She clutched her forehead, confused. Joe turned to her. "You okay?"

Sudden sunshafts bounced across the chamber as the alien shifted, unblocking the outflow pipe. Unfortunately that meant it was coming closer: a web of tentacles with a truck-sized spider waiting in the centre. _It's angry_ , Joe thought. _We made it ANGRY._ Crash! More debris. Joe squinted, searching for the others.

Martin, Cary and Preston had been cut off near the entrance, the lizards forming a thick ring around them. Martin brandished his cleaver. Preston's jeans were red down one side. _Wait, is he bleeding?_ The creature's bulk was impossible to avoid and Joe took a few steps in the other direction. He realised the slingshot was still in his pocket; he'd completely forgotten it was there. _No help now._ _Rock and a hard place… you've got maybe ten seconds to think of something._

_Nine._

_Eight._

"Charles!" Rachel yelled. "Here!" He turned round just in time to catch the thrown pistol. He fumbled, almost dropping it in shock.

"What? Why did you—"

"Stay back!"

The alien swelled towards her, closing the gap. A set of appendages lashed at her body – missed by feet – and she collapsed.

_Seven._

_Six._

"Rachel!" Charles screamed. He rushed towards her. Joe stared, unable to—

"Stay BACK!" she shrieked. Rachel sat up, focused on the alien. Her eyes narrowed and suddenly they _burned_ with fury – pure rage, like a child mid-tantrum, unable to conceive of the tiniest hint of comfort. She clenched her jaw, cords tightening in her neck.

Joe shivered. _I've never seen her actually_ angry _before._

Slowly, she stood. Her nostrils flared.

And then, things started to… rise. Cary noticed it first with his cigarette lighter: it shot up into the air, hovering near the ceiling. Joe felt the hem of this jacket rise, then fall as if fingers had let it go. Bits of rubble vibrated back and forth, and were lifted – weightless – by an invisible force. The largest sections spun gently as they floated. He flashed back to when the first alien had built its ship, streams of metal arcing through the sky. _That was just metal, though. This is EVERYTHING._

All he could do was watch. Sticks, pebbles, washed-away rubbish were plucked from the earth to join the levitating objects. Rachel stood, frozen, Charles part-way to her, staring in wonder-slash-terror. Lizards thrashed and hissed, mid-air; concrete floated like leaves on a river. Joe gazed at the shadowy forest above as his heartbeat pounded in his skull.

Then the girl opened her mouth and _screamed_.

The sound was almost physical, the air expanding, pressing on his ears till it made them ring.

Eerily, wondrously, the gigantic bulk of the alien began to rise – lifting off the ground, flesh drooping. It ascended towards the roof, one metre, then two, with slow and inexorable weightlessness. Tentacles writhed in wild confusion.

Joe focused on his heartbeat. _Thud. Thud._ Rachel shuddered, still shrieking, every muscle taut. Slowly, streams of clear fluid began to burst from the alien's skin, as if its very blood were being torn from its body. It billowed beautifully in the sunlight.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

More fluid. It paused, suspended.

Then the creature, along with every single other floating object, was shoved violently into the left-hand wall. _SPLAT!_ Water sprayed high into the air. It squealed in rage, wobbling, crumpling to the ground. Debris exploded as lizards scattered from the force. Dust spiralled through the air.

Rachel raised her hand, exhausted, and gestured towards the exit pipe.

"Run," she whispered.

Then she fell forwards, eyes closed.

"Rachel!" Charles ran to her side. He grabbed her shoulders. "Wake up!"

"Woah… what did she do?" Alice whispered.

Joe shook his head, unable to say anything. _But s_ _he tore through the bars,_ he realised. The gate that'd been blocking the exit pipe was now a twisted ball of metal. He glanced behind them, saw Martin and Preston come stumbling through the dust, the sun bright on their faces. _Alright_ – _you've got a chance while it recovers._

"Guys, this way! We can escape through the pipe."

"I think I'm gonna faint," Martin groaned.

"Don't you DARE!" Charles roared. "Martin, help me with her!" They lifted Rachel between them, still comatose, her legs dragging limply across the floor. "Go! Go go go!"

Together, they stumbled towards the exit. Cary pulled a second deodorant can from his pocket; he tore a strip from his shirt, tied it round, lit it and sent the can flying at the alien with flames trailing behind.

"Stuff you!" he screeched.

With the way unobstructed they reached the pipe in seconds. Charles and Martin lifted Rachel over the lip. Joe followed. He stole one last glance behind him, saw a hundred tentacles curling in the gloom, saw the cilia ripple against a white-hot flash. He hurried along the tunnel. A _BANG_ split his eardrums a millisecond later.

They reached the end of the pipe, and jumped into open air.

* * *

"What the heck _was_ that?" Martin asked, voicing the question on everybody's mind.

"Just… don't. I can explain it later. Please?" Rachel wiped her face, wetting her hands with her water bottle. She looked drained. Scared, too.

"But seriously, that was like some… real superhero stuff."

"Far from it," she replied under her breath.

"Yeah. Thanks," Charles said. "I mean, we've all seen some super freaky shit by this point, and that was among the freakiest. But thanks. Really."

"It's fine. I can… we can talk about it later, I promise. Not right now."

"Okay."

Rachel she stared at her hands, opening and closing her fingers. They were waiting in the scrub half-way up the mansion's driveway, surveying its façade with anxious eyes. Nothing stirred behind the broken windows. The pipe had deposited them on the far side the hill, near the bottom (where it emptied into a creek), but it hadn't taken long to make their way back to their staring point.

Preston's leg had been scratched during the fight, but the wound didn't appear too deep. "All of this blood should really be inside me," he said, feeling his stained jeans.

"Suck it up. You'll be fine," Cary said.

"I don't feel fine."

"You'll be fine. Do you think we hurt the alien any?"

"Probably not, it was pretty big," Joe said. "Either way, we'll have to deal with it."

"I'm surprised it hasn't chased us yet," Martin added worriedly.

"Maybe it isn't confident enough?" Alice replied. "It's been in hiding ever since it arrived. It probably wants to stay that way – under the radar."

Smoke abruptly started to rise from the mansion: a hint of it at first, which soon became a swirling grey plume.

"What?" Cary said innocently.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the first police car arrived. It was swiftly followed by a fire engine, sirens flashing red and blue, then another two squad cars.

The group watched, hidden behind a fallen log.

"This could work," Charles whispered. "If the cops go inside and investigate, they might find the alien."

"Or it might find them," Martin said.

"Sure. But if they discover where it's hidden, it means they can handle it."

"…can they?"

"Yes! Of course they can."

They peered over the log. The fire engine had parked across the front of the house, firemen unspooling the water hose from the rear as orange shimmered behind second-storey windows. Half a dozen police officers had formed a perimeter round the yard, milling about in confusion as the sun dipped towards the horizon. The sirens flickered, red, blue, red, blue, casting colourful shadows.

"Cary, seriously, did you do this?" Charles asked.

"No, man."

"Really? It seems awfully convenient," Preston said.

"Well…" he shrugged. "Maybe. It's hard to tell."

"How could it _possibly_ be hard to tell?"

The first jets of water splashed from the hose, soaking the main wing. A few firemen had pushed through the front door and disappeared inside. The police waited. One was speaking into a radio, probably calling for backup. _Although if the house is abandoned, it's not a huge problem if it burns…_

Red, blue, red, blue. The sirens were almost hypnotic. Joe rubbed his eyes.

"What's that guy doing?"

Martin pointed stealthily. One of the police officers was standing apart from the rest. Abruptly, he fell to his knees.

A moment later, he got up.

Pulled out his gun.

Walked calmly towards the closest uniform.

Fired point-blank into the other policeman's head.

Cary's eyes widened. " _Holy_ —"

Charles clamped a hand over his mouth, cutting him off.

 _Bang! Bang bang!_ The policeman collapsed, falling onto the hood of his car. Blood spattered the paint. Two more shots and another officer fell, hit in the shoulder. The others had noticed something was wrong but seemed utterly confused. They turned, ducking instinctively.

Joe stared, unable to process what was happening. The sirens flashed, red-blue, red-blue. Then he felt a _lurch_ in his thoughts; the world spun, ropes wrapping round his brain but he quenched them with a twist of panic. _It's lashing out. They were getting close and it panicked, and now it's lashing out and it's taken control. It's making them TURN on each other—_

Bang! A bullet sparked off metal. The possessed police officer reloaded silently. _Bang! Bang!_ Another officer down. Blood sprayed across the grass.

"We gotta do something," Martin stammered, "guys, we gotta—"

"We _can't_!" Charles retorted, almost crying. "Joe, can you…"

 _Can I?_ He searched for a thread, trying to feel… something. Anything. But the air was just that – empty air. He shook his head. _It's hiding from me._

 _Bang!_ Red, blue, red, blue. Smoke puffed from the windows. The figures moved with unreal swiftness. One more policeman keeled over, hit in the side but the last managed to get a few shots off in response, bullets whizzing through the trees. Joe ducked. _Bang bang bang!_ Red mist settled across the dirt.

Silence.

 _Bang!_ A window shattered, the remaining officer tumbling through it.

The firefighters were shouting, panicking. One of them managed to climb into the truck, pulled the door shut, reversing across the yard. The antagonist advanced calmly towards another as he fled, sprinting towards the forest. The fireman ducked. Shells buzzed above his head. Reload. The next clipped his leg and he skidded into a rosebush. The firetruck roared, wheels spinning, hose dragging behind it and began bouncing down the driveway. It screeched past them as it careened around the bend, driver hunching low over the wheel. Soon, it disappeared from view.

Red, blue, red, blue. The last police officer stopped. He sighed. Then – like a robot – he turned the gun on himself.

_Bang!_

A flash. The echoes faded.

In the silence, nobody stirred. Joe wanted to say something, but what _could_ you say? Words weren't enough. Bodies lay scattered across the mansion's front yard, leaking red. He turned away, the horror not setting in. Yet.

"Did we just… kill a bunch of people?" Martin asked.

"No," Alice said firmly. " _It_ did."

The thought wasn't much comfort. Joe couldn't imagine what it was like up close.

"No," Charles muttered. "No no no no NO—"

* * *

Alice sat in the car with her dad, alone. Louis parked in their driveway and turned off the engine, one hand on the door.

"Do I wanna know?" he asked, a faint smile on his face. He gave her a sidelong glance in the darkness.

"Not really," she answered. "Sorry."

The ride home had been deathly silent, everybody unwilling – or unable – to address what they'd seen. Thinking about it seemed impossible. _More_ than impossible. Alice had shoved it aside into a shadowy section of her mind, determined to focus on actually sleeping and staying sane, at least until tomorrow. _We have_ no _idea what we're dealing with, do we._

_Christ._

"I don't want you getting into trouble… not like me," Louis continued.

"I won't."

"But it isn't hard to figure out what you're doing. Chasing after aliens. Monsters. Whatever they're called. I _know_ you don't like giving up on things."

She didn't reply, but he must've noticed her surprise.

"I hear rumours, Ally – I can tell what you've been up to. I'm not dumb. After everything went down during the summer… I guess it never stopped."

"No," she said eventually. "No, it didn't."

"Why? You know it's dangerous."

"It is. But we're trying to help." _Because sometimes, I don't think anybody else can._

"Ally, listen. Even if you _are_ helping, it's – it's not your fight. You can't get yourself hurt. I already almost lost you once." He tapped his foot. "So, I'll ask again. Do I wanna know?"

She thought for a moment. "…Remember the monsters? They left. And now they're back."

* * *

Jack Lamb crouched in the darkness, staring at the map. Yes. This was the place.

Before him, on the hilltop, was a great expanse of ploughed-up dirt. There was a concrete bunker nearby; across from it, a fallen radio tower. The whole area was lit by powerful spotlights, keeping the night at bay.

The hill roads had still blocked by the military, but there were trails all through the forests if you knew where to look. Deputy Rosko did (thanks to an undisclosed passion for hiking) and had told him _exactly_ how to get there. Jack made a mental note to buy him a case of beer. _And now that you_ are _here… what next?_ The peak of Mount Hawthorn retained a significant military presence. Guards were stationed at regular intervals along the perimeter, patrolling with rifles in hand. In lieu of buildings, inflatable tents had been set up across the hilltop, made from bright white canvas. Electric generators hummed in the night.

The largest tent was closest to his position. It had a round, bubble-like shape, with a geometric frame for support. Clear plastic windows dotted its exterior. It had one entrance – a long tunnel – which acted as a decontamination chamber, and every now and then a lab-coated figure walked through, accompanied by the hiss of compressed air.

 _Clearly, they're up to something. But that doesn't mean much till I find out what._ His position in the forest was relatively concealed, so he climbed onto a nearby branch and peered through his binoculars.

The angle made it difficult to see, but… there were definitely people inside the tent. Hospital beds, too. Then a familiar figure walked past the window: his old 'friend' Lieutenant Forman. _That's where the fun's happening. I gotta get inside_ … _though on second thought, there's NO way I'm getting in there. Too many guards. Only one entrance. And he'd probably recognise me._

 _I can get a better glimpse at least._ Jack waited until the nearest guard was walking away from him, then darted across the short gap between the forest and the side of the tent. He took a couple of breaths; made sure he hadn't been spotted. There were a few large crates stacked next to a generator unit and together, they formed a small alcove which would make him fairly invisible. _Unless somebody's actually looking for me, but I bet they weren't expecting people to bother sneaking up here._

Directly in front was one of the tent's windows. After whispering a brief prayer, he popped up and looked through.

Spread before him was a brightly-lit tableau. On one side was Lieutenant Forman with another pair of officers. Opposite them stood a scientist. All four figures were wearing bulky white hazmat suits, air tanks on their backs, their faces visible through clear visors. In between was a surgical table, and strapped to it was a man whom Jack recognised.

Benjamin McCandless appeared to be unconscious: eyes closed, head lolling to the side. The middle-aged man was still wearing his farm clothes and an IV drip hung from a nearby stand, leading a needle in his forearm. Pale blue surgical drapes covered every surface.

"Are we ready?" Lieutenant Forman asked, his voice muffled but audible through the window. They were gazing at McCandless, facing away from Jack's direction.

"Affirmative," the scientist replied.

"Then do it. He's seen too much, so we would've needed to isolate him anyway. At least now he can be moderately useful."

The scientist nodded and stepped forwards. He opened a small box, removing a vial of black liquid. With gloved fingers, he levered McCandless' mouth open, then poured the vial's contents inside. The liquid was thick, viscous, like tar. He tapped the vial against the farmer's teeth to force the last drops out.

"Now we wait," another officer said.

 _What they heck are they doing_ _to him?_ Jack wondered. _Doesn't look like medicine. He must've been captured somehow – this can't be legal._ He kept watching.

"We found traces of Substance Eight in certain sections of the crash site," the scientist explained. "We believe it's a biological excretion from the larger species, or possibly a medical aid which they developed to enhance short-term survivability. When directly ingested, it has interesting effects."

A minute later, McCandless woke up. His eyes snapped open; he gazed at his surroundings in shock. Then he began to struggle wildly, legs thrashing against his restraints.

"Keep him secure," Forman said.

_Oh Christ._

Slowly, a dark liquid began to trickle from the farmer's mouth. The officers watched, Forman impassive, the others concealing surprise. More liquid started leaking from his nose, then from the space behind his eyes. McCandless twitched. The veins on his forearms, on his face were becoming more… pronounced, darker, a tattooed spiderweb beneath his skin. His lips were black. Goo dripped in thick streaks, dying to escape—

Then his veins _burst._ The fluid enveloped him. It mixed with blood, covering his skin, thickening, swiftly hardening over clothes, forming irregular, sticky clumps. He screamed. The goo solidified further – rough and spiky, with thicker patches across the chest and shoulders. His movements slowed. Half his body had been cocooned. The black substance reminded Jack of _armour_ , almost, like the segmented plates a medieval knight would wear. The man's limbs were permeated with it, fused with his skin.

McCandless arched his back, and a stream of black vomit sprayed from his mouth. He twisted sideways, still strapped to the table, liquid splashing across the walls, the floor, splattering against the visors of the hazmat suits. The soldiers recoiled.

"Argh!" He choked, his voice nearly unrecognisable. "Help… help me…"

Lieutenant Forman frowned. "He survived?"

"Help… me… it hurts…"

The thing on the table groaned in pain. The goo covering its body shifted, rippled; slender, curving cilia grew on its shoulders, then dissolved again, sparkling under the surgical lights.

"Terrifying," the Lieutenant murmured.

Jack couldn't believe his eyes. _Whatever they fed him… it made him a monster. This is worse than anything they've done before, WAY worse. How could they—_

"Is this the extent of the transformation?" another officer asked.

"I believe so," the scientist replied. "It likely requires additional nutrients to progress further. We aren't entirely sure what Substance Eight contains, but it must be exquisitely evolved – a perfect parasite, immediately adaptive to its host."

"And its purpose?" Forman asked, staring distastefully at the monster.

"We'll keep the subject under observation. At first glance, it appears to quite dangerous."

McCandless twitched.

"It could lead to enormous breakthroughs in medical and biological knowledge," the scientist continued. "Human morphology, genetic modification, parasitic behaviour… it's an extraordinary find, unprecedented. We could certainly modify it to suit our purposes – into an energy source, or an environmental agent."

"Or a weapon," Forman said. "Yes, a weapon, unlike any other." He glanced skyward, his expression unreadable. "And we have such a large number of subjects nearby to test it on…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- We finally met a bad guy! I wonder how much it's telling the truth. Hmm…  
> \- I kinda entered full horror-movie mode, sorry. Credit to It Follows and The Conjuring for inspiration!  
> \- Joe's visions are a frankly enormous deus-ex-machina, but there IS a reason for them, so I guess it works?  
> \- I've hit 300,000 words. That's a lot of words. TOO MANY WORDS.  
> \- The policeman-turning-on-each-other scene was a little uncomfortable to write, so I modified it to be more 'distant'. It's still completely horrifying, obviously, but hopefully less off-putting. But I think I'm done with murder for the foreseeable future. This IS meant to be a story where the kids actually save the day, right?  
> \- Thanks for reading!


	33. Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the scenes in this chapter probably betrays my origins, because in Australia we have events called swimming carnivals, where the school gets together and the different houses/factions compete in swimming. (There are also athletics carnivals and cross-country running carnivals - fun, mostly because you get a day off school).
> 
> Anyway, after writing it, I realised that swim carnivals probably don't exist in the US? Australia only has them because of our national obsessions with sport and beaches. And do US schools even have houses? I guess they wouldn't? It was surprisingly hard to Google this information, so perhaps just imagine Joe's moved to Australia for three pages.

* * *

NAME: Capella Virus

ORIGIN: [redacted]

FIRST SIGHTING: [redacted] 1979

EFFECT: Brain damage; blood clotting; organ failure; extreme muscular transformation and modification to the nervous system

TRANSMISSIBILITY: Moderate to high

RECOMMENDED ACTIONS: Avoidance and quarantine until further study is performed. It is possible that [redacted] and should thus be treated with caution. Effects are unusual and are considered lethal. Prevention of uncontrolled outbreaks is of highest priority.

— _Extract from a classified US Government and WHO report_

* * *

Preston couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the monster.

Every time he peeked out the window, he saw the monster.

Every time he got up to go to the bathroom, he saw the monster in the shadows. Each whisper of wind, each leaf crackling in the night… even his bed didn't feel safe.

Which was stupid, obviously, and Preston hated feeling stupid.

His dreams were filled with the monster, too. Or _monster-s_ , he corrected himself. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was the cave, the tunnels, the ghosts. The police killing each other like it was nothing. _They're out there. They're going to kill everybody. Me. My parents. My friends. Everybody. And there's nothing we can do._

He lay in bed, muscles stiff, staring at the ceiling. His sheets were cold and clammy with hours-old sweat. _Think of something else_ , he told himself, _literally_ anything _else. You're safe right now. There's no point thinking about it. You're supposed to be smart, aren't you?_

Sometimes, though, being smart meant you thought too much.

* * *

"We _cannot_ deal with this ourselves," Alice said vehemently. "There's no way."

"I thought we did okay," Charles replied.

"Charles, we almost died like, five times."

" _Almost_. And against a giant alien monster, I think that's impressive. We know what it is, now. We can fight it."

"Sure – but eventually, our luck will run out. I'm being realistic." Alice shook her head. "Whatever happened to 'this is a bad idea?'"

"Nothing! The problem is, those aliens are gonna murder literally everyone on the planet which means we need to do _something_."

The group had gathered by the side of the school's football field, sitting on the grass. Joe picked at the weeds by his feet. _It's never easy – figuring out exactly_ what _to do._ Kids ran to and fro in the background.

"We can't fight them head on," Rachel said. "We need to be smart. Attack where they're weakest."

"And we need help," Preston said, "more help, and information, and enough time to make a _really_ good battle plan. Hit 'em in the thermal exhaust port."

"How much time do we have, realistically?" Martin asked. "Months? Weeks?… Days?"

They exchanged a glance.

"Dunno."

* * *

Jack walked through the derelict house, taking in the mould, the cracks, the decay. The hallway led on into shadow, occasional patches of sunlight slanting through shattered windows. He passed Deputy Rosko in the dining room, busy examining a hole in the floor.

"Anything interesting?" Jack asked.

"Who knows. Deep friggin' hole, though."

"There's another in the corridor outside."

"Yeah, I saw."

Jack moved on. He glanced at a Christmassy snowglobe on a shelf, unable to escape a sense of unease. Two squad cars from the Dayton PD had been dispatched here on the weekend. News had come this morning that all involved officers had disappeared. Nobody had heard from them since. Witness reports had been… unnerving: some sort of firefight, apparently.

So, here they were, investigating. But neither his guys nor the Dayton officers had found any bodies. It was like they'd all vanished. Vanished, apart from some blood outside and three abandoned squad cars, sirens still flashing.

Jack drew his gun, just in case. He told the others to do the same. No sense in being unprepared.

Then one of the Dayton cops called out. "I found some kind of passage. Like, a tunnel."

"Where's it lead?"

"…Down."

* * *

"They're like vampires," Cary said. "Sucking the life from planets to stay alive."

Joe nodded. "They harvest people to – to stop some kind of darkness? However that works. But it kept mentioning the greater good, like they're helping keep other species alive, too."

"Everybody except us," Alice said.

"I guess so."

"Science is weird," Preston said. "I mean, in principle we can't _disprove_ what it said, so we should probably assume it's true. Apparently large-scale genocide is an effective preservation method."

"That's kinda intense," Joe replied.

Cary shrugged. "It's unfair. I'm sure there's heaps of cool aliens out there, but for some reason we're the sacrifice. How are they planning on murdering Earth anyway?"

"They could've just nuked us from orbit," Charles said, "but they're hiding. Infiltrating. Which implies—"

"Implies?"

"Yes, Cary, _implies_ that the aliens need time. Or their murder-process is more complicated than that."

"Murder-process. Great," Martin said. "Basically, we're going to need divine intervention to stop these things. Or, you know. Some kind of psychic witch-girl." He stared at Rachel.

She met his gaze for a moment, then sighed. "I suppose it'll be nice to finally tell somebody."

* * *

They advanced through the tunnel which ran underneath the house, six cops total, Jack with Deputies Milner and Rosko plus three colleagues from Dayton. He spoke quietly into his police radio.

"How's it look?"

" _Head straight, along the axial tunnel_ ," Deputy Skadden replied. " _The map's pretty clear. You might wanna switch to low frequency to keep the signal up."_

"Got it." They'd managed to track down a city planning map of the hill and surrounding areas; Skadden was poring over it at ground level, directing them over the radio. Jack held his pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other.

"Watch the rear," he muttered. The tunnel was formed from featureless concrete slabs, old and unused, but every now and then he noticed the outline of a footprint in the dust. _Perhaps the missing officers did come down here._

" _One-hundred-fifty yards in, there should be an exit,_ " Skadden said.

"Got it."

" _There's a large chamber on the other side."_

Rosko ran a hand through his slick brown hair, looking nervous. Sometimes _not_ finding anything was the more disturbing possibility. They stuck close together, idle chatter limited to the occasional question and answer.

Soon they reached the exit that Skadden had described. "I've got point," Jack said. "Check your corners."

They emerged into the pump room, flashlights barely revealing the far end of the cavernous space, the glow bouncing from pillar to pillar between rusting metallic pipes.

"Spread out," Jack said. "Search the room, watch your spacing."

" _Transmission's showing a lotta breakup,"_ Skadden said, near-inaudible through static of his own. _"Getting interference from the terrain."_

"Copy that."

Jack skirted the central pathway, keeping watch. The other deputies fanned out behind him, weapons drawn. Like the house, the area seemed deserted. Then Jack spotted a twinkle in the dark; he shone his flashlight and spotted a discarded snack bar wrapper on the ground. It was the same brand that Joe liked – fresh, too.

_"You wanna take the service ladder in the corner nearest to the entrance, then proceed southward. That's to your right."_

"Thanks, Skadden. We might be close."

" _Roger that._ "

"We're taking the ladder," he called out loudly. "Follow me."

At the bottom of the ladder it began to get much, _much_ stranger. The passage there had used to be a waterway, but now it was something else entirely: the walls, ceiling, floor were covered in a strange black substance, like _webbing._ It was stretched and slathered over every surface, smooth and hard beneath his boots, with patches of dark, oily wetness nestling amongst rounded crevices.

Milner stared, bug-eyed. Water dripped. Their flashlights played over the webbed surface.

"What is that?" Rosko asked.

"God knows," a Dayton deputy replied, "I only work here."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Proceed inside."

* * *

"I honestly don't remember much," Rachel said. "Maybe it would be better to forget. But, it started with something called the Athena plan. Publicly, it was a program for educating gifted children, but in reality…" She sighed. "During World War 2, there was a section of the Japanese military known as Unit 731. They were renowned for human experimentation. Unit 731 was disbanded after the war, but fringe elements survived. I didn't know this at the time, of course – my father told me about it afterwards. The true goal of the Athena plan was to take young people, children, and develop them as… tools… with exceptional abilities. They wanted to create new 'saviours' of Japan. I was one of the children. So was my brother.

"We were taken to a facility in the countryside, which they called The Village. We were kept there. Twenty-six of us. Some of the children were definitely orphans, but I don't _think_ I was – I remember faces… places from before. It's hard to be sure. It doesn't really matter. Most of what they did at the Village was based on drugs, chemicals. They'd inject us with strange substances, attach us to strange machines. I was never sure what they were, or what they were doing. Some made me sick. Some didn't. The worst part was the tests. They'd put something inside of you that was supposed to make you run faster, or think faster, and then they'd _make_ you run faster, and if you couldn't… occasionally people would die. They pushed hard. Even then, it never stopped." Rachel paused. "The Village was large. Secure. They must've had money, since there were lots of researchers. Apparently, they only saw effective results in developing children under the age of twelve, which is why they needed us. I was… seven? I remember being kept in a giant white room. Bars on the windows… the teacher was at the front, and we'd sit on the floor, and the sun would come through the bars and make her look like a ghost. We played hide and seek sometimes, in the long hallways. There was one girl – I think the experiments ruined her brain – who always liked to chase us. She'd sing ' _Ready or not, here I come_ ' in her sleep. Same words, every night. I suppose I was lucky – at least I had my brother.

"He – Kei – was a year younger. We went through the same experiments, so they could compare. At first, we simply had to move things with our hands. Then they wanted us to move things just by _looking_ at them. It actually didn't seem that strange – we were children, and which child doesn't want magic powers? Even if it hurts. The drugs burned underneath our skin, and the headaches were incredible. Kei would be unconscious for days at a time. But he was faster than me. His results were better. The first time he pushed a car through a wall, I was still lifting pencils, and he – he was my brother. The program continued like that for years. Two, three. I don't know exactly how long.

"But one day, after Number Five died… we planned to escape. We didn't think about it for long; the option was suddenly just _there_ in our heads. No more burning, no more white rooms. 'Ready or not' girl kept the guard patterns memorised, so we set a fire in the labs, and ran. Some of the children came with us. Not all. The Village was surrounded by an open field, which made escaping harder… it was just before dawn. We ran for the fence. One of those tall chain fences with barbed wire at the top, but we climbed it anyway. That's what I remember clearest – holding on, half-way up, seeing the other children running through the grass. Seeing the guards chasing them. Everyone in their pyjamas." She smiled bitterly. "Probably should've made a better plan. Or told more people, at least. Kei was still on the ground, and he—" She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. There was… screaming. Smoke. The next thing I remember is us, holding each other on the grass. It was silent. There was blood everywhere. Blood on our clothes. Blood on Kei's cheek. Bodies scattered and torn, like a dream. The guards. The children. Nobody was alive. Nobody but us.

"There was a small gap where the fence had collapsed. So we just… walked out."

* * *

 _We probably shouldn't go any further_ , Jack thought to himself, as they edged down the tunnel. _This is more 'n' enough for one day._

Still, they kept going. The pipe narrowed ahead of them, black strands stretching from wall to wall, clouds of steamy vapour pooling where stormwater had once flowed. Jack stared at the webbing, conflicted with curiosity and unease.

"I know everyone's a little jumpy," he said quietly, "but watch your fire. Remember, we're looking for survivors in here."

His voice echoed. They came to a junction, the tunnel splitting left and right. Jack shone his flashlight down either path but couldn't see more than twenty yards.

"Skadden. You got something?" he muttered into the radio.

There was a hiss, then a barely-audible reply. "… _khhshk…—o left. Left path should be—…"_

Jack sighed inwardly. _Just gotta remember how to get back out._

They went left. Strange stalagmite-like structures began to sprout from the floor, glistening with moisture. As he stepped through them, they almost seemed to shiver with hidden life; it was like they'd all been shrunk to microscopic size and were wandering around inside the guts of some strange animal. He glanced over his shoulder, noticed some of the other officers lagging behind. "Tighten it up. We're getting a little thin."

Rosko snapped the tip from one of the stalagmites as he passed; it came away easy, like breaking a Kit-Kat. "Looks like some sort of… secreted resin?"

"Yeah, but secreted from what?" Milner replied worriedly.

"Nobody touch nothing," Jack barked.

Another junction. The tunnel curved and warped around them, twisting like a blood vessel, moisture dripping onto heads and shoulders.

"Hot as hell in here," one of the Dayton cops said.

"Yeah man, but it's a _dry_ heat," another replied.

Jack realised he was beginning to sweat and wiped his face with his sleeve. His flashlight glinted from a bulbous structure in the wall, grey and mucus-y, a hellish version of the snowglobe from the house above. _Ugh_ _, what is this. What the hell are we doing here._

_Good question, Jack, 'cause everyone else is following YOU._

" _…should be—…almost there_ ," Skadden said suddenly. _"Other pa—khhhkk—dead ends."_

"Copy that. Sort of," Jack replied. Then: "Holy shit."

The first body they discovered was encased in the wall – covered and bound by the black secretion, pinned like some Christ-like figure. Its dead, blue face stared emptily at the ground, tongue hanging out, one hand's fingers clawing at the air.

The half-dozen officers gathered around it, keeping what could be called a safe distance. "This one of them?" Jack asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

Their flashlights gave the man's skin a ghostly sheen. A little further along was another body, this one pinned to the wall as well, thick, sticky strands of web criss-crossing damp clothes. Bullet wounds were still visible in his shoulder. Something crackled beneath Rosko's boot; he knelt down and nudged it with his gun, frowning. The object was a thin, translucent sheet, like a snake-skin but larger. He brushed it away.

"Steady," Jack murmured, as much for himself as the others. "Let's keep moving. We've still got a job to do."

They walked onwards. More bodies. Puffy faces gazed at them from slimy cocoons, every single one possessing the same shocked expression, a demented procession of the dead. _But t_ _hey were killed by the gunshots. Whatever this is_ _…_ _it happened after._ For the first time in several years Jack found himself wanting a cigarette; anything to steady his shaking hands—

"Movement!" a Dayton officer shouted from the rear.

Jack whirled around. "What's the position?"

"I – I can't see. They were behind us. Multiple."

"Everyone, look sharp."

They spread out across the tunnel. Jack sighted down his weapon, facing the darkness. It was difficult to see past the stalagmites and protrusions. The shadows flickered.

"— _kkhkhk. Jack, what's happening_? _Backup just a…_ "

 _Not the best time, Skadden._ He pointed at Rosko and Milner. "You two, check the other direction."

"Sure." They took positions at the edge of the tunnel.

"There!" the Dayton officer shouted.

His colleague squinted. "Where, man? I don't see shit."

"Yeah, there's nothing back there."

"Look, I'm telling you, there's something moving and it ain't us."

Jack felt a tap on his shoulder. He jumped, but it was only Milner. "Jack, I think we—"

 _BANG!_ One of the Dayton cops fired down the tunnel.

Something moved. It was low to the floor, at the edge of flashlight range, skittering back and forth—

_BANG! BANG!_

"Hold fire!" Jack barked. "Looks like an animal." Still, he flicked the safety off, aiming into the darkness. _Can't remember the last time I actually fired this thing in action._

A strange, hoarse cry echoed from the dark. Then, a piece of shadow raced towards them.

A flurry of gunshots sparked off the ceiling. It was difficult to see but whatever it was scrabbling along the tunnel walls, a black shape wriggling around the webbing and the stalagmites, coming so fast he couldn't even follow it with his gun—

_BANG! BANG BANG BANG!_

The creature _shot_ past them in a flurry of movement, dust trickling down on them from its passage. It quickly vanished into the gloom.

"What the heck _was_ that?" Milner asked.

"Dunno. A lizard, maybe?" Rosko said.

"Big fucking lizard."

Jack toed the shell casings by his feet. The air stank of gunpowder. _Luckily, it was probably more afraid of us than we were of it._ Then, there were more sounds – animal calls, echoing through the caves. Close. Jack bit his lip. _Sounds like a damn kid playing a trombone. And if there's more of 'em… maybe the next few won't be so harmless._ "We need to find that exit. Now."

* * *

"I still not sure who did it," Rachel said. "Kei always said he didn't know. Me, or him… maybe we both lost control. Maybe neither of us did. Didn't matter, they were dead anyway. We still had to run. We wandered for hours, walking, then crawling, until we were found by the man I call my father.

"He was changing a flat tire on the side of the road. It was random chance. Could've been anybody, but it was him. He took us home, introduced us my mother. She asked questions, obviously, but it was fairly easy to prove where we'd come from. What we could do. After a while, the most sensible option seemed like staying together – my father has a condition where he can't have children, so I suppose it all worked out.

"And then things became… normal, if that's the right word. He had connections through his government job, so he could 'obtain' new birth certificates and things. We went to school. The Athena plan was shut down. I think some international governments intervened. My father decided it was best to flee Japan in case the past ever caught up, so we moved to America. He got a job with the CIA, partly because it was natural, partly because it made it easier to investigate what'd happened to us. We became a family."

Rachel took a deep breath. "But the drugs they'd given us… changed us, permanently, in ways people aren't meant to be changed. My brother got sick. After a while, the headaches never stopped. It took just over four years, but… he died. He died. I… didn't. But everybody else from Athena is probably dead too. The researchers were never very concerned with longevity, so there's probably a good reason there aren't other people like me." She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them, staring at the sky. "This is a long way of saying I don't know how – or why – I can do the things I do. My parents tried their best to find out, but I've never known how it works. I can barely describe how it _feels_. It's like… the air is filled with colours, spiralling, colourful strings that connect everyone and everything, and when I tug on the strings… it's painful, but the kind of pain that's satisfying. I can grit my teeth and concentrate and make things _fly_. I can tear things apart. It _works_. When I want them to – _really_ want them to – the colours stretch and flicker, and I can… things happen. It's tiring, but the energy comes from inside and outside at the same time, like tapping into an ethereal battery. So, I'm not a witch. I'm just somebody who sees weird colours and can somehow make them move.

"As I get older, I've been able to control the ability more and more, but – I still don't like doing it. It… changes me. It changed Kei, I think. It's not a magic bullet, or a superpower. I can't rely on it. Because one day, the pain might not stop." She turned away, shaking her head. "I don't want to see those bodies again. I don't want to hurt people. When you see their blood, flying through the air… it mixes with the other colours a little too well."

* * *

They moved speedily through the tunnels. Skadden had said the nearest exit was close, but the sounds of pursuit never seemed to leave them. Jack couldn't help glancing over his shoulder, seeing nothing but the tense faces of his deputies against the blackness behind them. Claws skittered at the back of his imagination.

Soon, however, there was a hint of daylight and he heard more than a few relieved sighs. After shimmying through a slim opening they emerged, rubbing their eyes, into a large, low-ceilinged chamber.

It was mostly empty. The floor was dotted by pieces of scattered debris, chunks fallen from the ceiling. What looked like _hairs_ had formed a carpet underfoot, dead and still. At the far end, a busted pipe led to the outside world.

In the centre was a tower of sorts: a thick black pillar, spearing upward into the earth. It had been twisted together from ropes of the secreted substance, solid and taut. A faint green luminescence hovered over its surface, emitted from hundreds of tiny eye-like orbs. As they watched, the tower let out a _hissss_ … and thick clouds of fog puffed from organic pipes, settling on the chamber floor.

_Okay, boys. I've been kinda thinking this for a while now, but we are officially out of our depth._

* * *

The fog returned even thicker over the next few days, and with it, the town seemed to go slightly crazy. The paranoia regarding the military had built and built, stacked high like a half-built Jenga tower of emotion, and the constant oppressive clouds over Lillian simply made things worse.

"Isn't the fog kinda gross this morning?" Charles asked on the walk to school. His sister skipped through the whiteness ahead of them. " _Brrrr_ , it's so chilly."

Joe nodded. "It's usually not this cold in September." He glanced at the hills… or where the hills would usually be. "The weather's been really weird – the fog looks like it's going to stay here forever."

"I heard it's nothing to worry about," said Cary. "That's what some cool guy on TV was saying. But I also heard it's poisonous. Reeeaaally toxic! And nobody even knows why it's toxic! Man, just thinking about it makes me sick. I should probably say home for a while." He coughed.

"Dude, make up your mind," Charles replied. "No one's sick, it's fine. It's just… nice to see the sky, sometimes."

An old man approached them along the footpath. His silhouette looked strange, and Joe realised than the man was wearing a gas mask. The black rubber tubes and wide eye-holes made for an eerie figure. Air rasped through the filters.

"That is _super_ creepy," Joe said. "Are these clouds that bad?"

"Nah, it's just that old people are retarded," Cary replied ever-so-delicately.

"Dude, you were _just saying_ it's poisonous."

"Was I?"

" _Yeah_."

* * *

Jack did his best to ignore the anxious conversations. With luck, things would improve (and there wasn't time to worry about weather). Still, the two women behind him in the checkout line were murmuring _far_ too loudly.

" _Isn't this weather strange? I wonder what's causing it. It's so creepy… I heard that a friend of mine's son got sick from the fog and collapsed. You know how sensitive children are to that sort of thing."_

_"I heard something too… They say an old man was driving through the fog and got into an accident."_

_"What? Did he lose control?"_

_"Well, he'd never been in an accident or even gotten a ticket before, so something seems off… Isn't that scary?"_

_"I've even heard there are experts saying it's poisonous. I wonder if that's true…"_

_"Do you think it's, you know – because of the chemicals that all the factories are dumping? This town's changed a lot over the years. I wish the government would step in and do something."_

_"Oh, I agree completely. If we're going to pay taxes, I expect the authorities to do their jobs."_

* * *

The Atomic Liquors bar was located just off Lillian's main street and hummed with life even on a cool Tuesday night. Inside, Mirka Soderling squinted down a dart, towards the vaguely-fuzzy dartboard eight feet distant.

"Maybe you shouldn't have had that last beer," Sam murmured playfully.

"Nonsense. I'm fine."

"You're fine. I'm _winning_."

Mirka rolled her eyes but didn't allow herself to get distracted. Sam liked distracting her – _trash-talking,_ as the Americans said. Usually, he was a nice distraction, with his dark eyes and stubbled cheeks and wicked sense of humour, but not when she had three darts left with which to score 80 points.

Despite being off-duty, Sam was dressed in his army uniform, which meant that the other patrons were giving them a wide berth. Not in a particularly hostile way, but enough to make it obvious they weren't precisely welcome. _Screw 'em_ , Mirka thought. It was warmer inside, especially with the fog. Glasses clinked in the background. She held her breath, aimed, and threw.

 _Thwack!_ Triple twelve. "Ha!"

"Not bad," Sam replied. "Think you can do that again? 'Cause I don't."

"Actually, I agree with you. I think I can do _better_."

"Ohhhh, it's _on_. Did you ever hear of this guy called Icarus? He thought he was real great, but turns out he was an arrogant motherf—"

"As if I would ever lose to somebody with projectile dysfunction." She grinned.

"…have you been waiting to use that all night?"

"Maybe. Pretty good, right?" She readied her next throw, leaned forwards and—

A voice interrupted her. "Doctor Soderling?"

The dart sailed wide, clattering against the wall. " _Shit_. Yes, that's me." She turned to see a serious-looking, dark haired man. After a moment, she recognised him: he was the town's police chief, or 'sheriff', as they called it. _And I think I rather irritated him, the last time we met._

"My name's Jackson," the Sheriff said. "And I think we have a mutual friend."

Mirka frowned, her head still slightly swimmy. _Maybe_ _I DID_ _have too many drinks._ "Which friend?"

"They said you could help. And, hell, I need any help I can find. What do you know about the black goo they're testing on my townspeople?"

His bluntness surprised her; so did his stare. She felt Sam's hand on her arm but she brushed it away cautiously. "It really, really depends who's asking."

The Sheriff blinked. "I am."

"Mmm." Mirka closed her eyes, her heart suddenly thumping in her chest. _Come on, you have to be alert. Is this a good idea? You don't know who he is…_ "We should find a place that is a little less crowded. And then… then we can talk."

* * *

Rise Kujikawa stepped off the plane and onto American soil. Her first ten seconds made a pretty good impression; the Boeing 747 gleaming behind her, engines still spinning, a thick queue of passengers slowly trudging towards the LAX airport terminal.

It had been an incredible rush to get out of Japan, but somehow, she'd made it. Now she was here, in America, and the sun was shining, and…

And…

And what? She had a few journalism contacts (plus a relative or two) who could lend her a room whilst she found her feet. After that, Ohio sounded like a good place to go. She glanced down at her duffel bag and tugged at the zip, making sure it was tightly closed. It wouldn't do to get the object confiscated after coming all this way. Not before finding out what it did, first.

Ohio. _Yes_. Things were coming to a head, it seemed, and that was where she needed to be.

* * *

"Let's go Goldsmith, LET'S GO!" * _clap* *clap* *clap*_ "Let's go Goldsmith, LET'S GO!" * _clap* *clap* *clap*_

"Gimme a K!" _"K!"_ "Gimme an N!" _"N!"_ "Gimme an I!" _"I!"_ "Gimme a G!" _"G!"_ "Gimme an H!" _"H!"_ "Gimme a T!" _"T!"_

Joe stepped up to the diving block, the glittering expanse of a fifty-metre pool stretching out before him. To his left, the bleachers were packed with students, cheering and hollering to support their teams. Zac Gibbons was currently freestyling towards him along their pool lane, half-way through the 4x50 metre relay. Joe was the next swimmer. He slipped his goggles down over his eyes, making the elastic _snap_ with his finger. Cary was getting ready on the next block over; the boy noticed him looking and smiled like a shark.

Joe swallowed. _He's probably fast._ Zac was coming second, maybe twenty yards away. Cary's team was third, with another team in the lead.

_Just gotta beat Cary. I mean, his legs are shorter. Should be easy._

"—let's go Goldsmith, LET'S GO!" * _clap* *clap* *clap*_

"—what does it spell?" " _KNIGHT!_ "

The chants faded in his ears as Zac approached. The green team reached their line first; two lanes over, the first boy dived into the pool. Joe crouched down. _Closer, closer… touch._ Joe sprang off the block, falling through air for half a second before cannoning into the water. Not the most elegant dive, but no time to think about it now. He started kicking, arms cutting the water, a thick spray rising up behind him.

 _Arms. Arms. Breath. Arms. Arms. Breath._ That was the rhythm. Over fifty metres you didn't have to conserve energy, so he went as hard as he could. The world was a blur of bubbles and blue, apart from half-second glimpses of the stands whenever he stole a breath. He could see the spray from the swimmer ahead of him, couldn't yet see Cary coming up at the rear. _Come on, push_. _Arms. Arms. Breath._ Was he catching up? He couldn't tell. Fractured shouts reached his ears. Water rushed past. He stole a glance ahead, saw the far end of the pool twenty metres distant.

But Cary was catching him. Joe pulled with his arms, kicked faster with his legs – there _was_ something fun about it, that feeling of gliding through the water, even if it was currently tinged with panic. _Come on. Come on._ _Stuff you Cary._ The finish line crept closer, Cameron McDonald waiting on the block, the last swimmer on Joe's team. He was still ahead. There was the line, and—

Joe touched the wall of the pool, pressing up against it, glanced up to see Cameron flawlessly dive over him and slice into the water. The boy broke the surface a couple of seconds later, swimming smoothly.

 _I bet_ I _didn't look that good._ Joe stayed in the water till the end of the race, floating in place as the chants reached a crescendo.

In the end, they came second by a whisker. He pulled himself onto solid ground, gave his teammates a quick high five and walked back to the bleachers, breathing heavily. His swim trunks dripped on the tiles. The Lillian High swim comp was a hive of activity, most students relishing the chance for a day off school. The rest of Joe's group was sitting near the front and he climbed the steps to join them.

"Hey Joe, good race," Cary said. He whipped his hair back theatrically, droplets flying. "I was totally catching you though."

"We still beat you."

Martin was wrapped in a towel, teeth chattering, Presto sitting next to him. Charles was a couple of seats over, currently dressed in the threadbare dragon costume that served as the yellow team's mascot. Its googly eyes stared balefully across the crowd.

"Why don't they have the swimming carnival in _summer_ ," Martin groaned. "It doesn't make _sense_."

"I like the swim carnival," Cary said. "We get to see the girls without their shirts on."

"That means they get to see US without OUR shirts on," Charles replied.

"So? I bet Joe doesn't mind. Standing there. Dripping wet."

Joe blushed. "Can I borrow your towel, Martin?"

"Here."

Joe dried himself off and sat down. The next race was about to start, swimmers lined up at either end of the pool.

A girl approached them, picking her way through the stands. She was hiding a smile and, indeed, was not wearing a shirt over her black swim costume. She stopped next to Martin.

"Casey says hi," she said brightly.

Martin blinked. "Does she?"

"Yeah. She wanted you to know that you swim really fast."

"Oh. Cool. Then tell Casey I said hi too," Martin replied. "And… her hair looks really nice today."

The girl giggled. "Thanks!" She ran off.

Cary watched the exchange with disbelief. "Um, was that a random 'hi' or a Casey-has-a-crush-on-you 'hi'?"

"Is there any other type?" Joe murmured.

Martin folded his arms smugly. "I don't know why you're surprised. I'm actually a leading actor."

"Only 'cause I casted you," Charles called out, half-way through his mascot dance. "Let's go Goldsmith, LET'S GO!"

The race commenced. This time, the Knight faction won, and a sea of blue cheered from the stands. One of the teachers puffed loudly on her whistle to get the next relay ready.

"I just realised something," Cary said, staring into the middle distance. "Look where we're sitting."

Joe glanced around. They were near the bottom of the bleachers, surrounded by yellow-painted banners and discarded schoolbags. Most of the kids near them still had dry hair, and hadn't been doing much swimming, it seemed. A fair number were reading books.

"We're sitting with all the nerds," Cary whispered, as if it was the most terrible news he'd heard all year. "Are we nerds?"

Preston rolled his eyes. "You _just_ figured that out?"

"But we're not nerds. We're cool!"

"We've always been nerds, Cary. You're a nerd. I'm a nerd. It's just that you're in denial."

"I—"

"We dress up in monster costumes and play Dungeons and Dragons on the weekends. We're nerds," Preston said. "And that doesn't matter, because it's fun being a nerd. I enjoy it. It's not like we get picked last for lunchtime baseball games." He paused thoughtfully. "Except that one time."

"Besides, this group of nerds is gonna save the world," Martin said.

"People don't _know_ about that, though," Charles replied. "Which is annoying. Let's go Goldsmith, LET'S GO!" _*clap* *clap* *clap*_

Joe turned to watch the next event. His stomach rumbled; soon it'd be lunchtime. Then, his stomach backflipped like a gymnast as he saw Todd climbing the steps.

Joe stared awkwardly to the side, pretending not to notice. It seemed that Todd wasn't looking at him (and Joe wasn't about to initiate a conversation). He swallowed. Something brushed his foot.

"Sorry," Todd muttered. He continued up the stairs.

Joe breathed out. _Huh. That went well._

"So school camp is coming up," Preston said. "I think it's at Lake Erie this year."

"We haven't got time to go on a campout," Charles said. "Seriously, we have stuff to do."

"Eh, it should be fine. If we give all the information we have to somebody we trust, they can keep working on things while we're gone."

"Who?"

"…I haven't worked that out yet."

Joe sighed. They were no closer to figuring out the best course of action – how to find the aliens, let alone defeat them. Alice had mentioned she had some ideas, but she was sitting with another group of friends on the opposite side of the pool.

Then Cameron tapped him on the shoulder, swimming cap clutched in one fist. His ginger hair was tousled around his ears. "Hey, Joe. Can I ask you a favour?"

"Sure, what is it?" He immediately had a sinking feeling.

"Can you swim butterfly for the relay? No one else wants to do it."

"Um… I don't think I know how."

"It's easy – it's like freestyle, but with your arms and legs symmetrical." He mimed the action. "Please?"

"Ummm… sure. I guess. Gimme a second."

"Thanks, Joe – you're the best." Cameron smiled and ran off along the bleachers.

Joe sighed. _Cameron's nice, but he knew I'd say yes. That's why he asked._ He grabbed his goggles and stood up, stretching his shoulders. _Learn to say no, Joe. Now you're gonna look stupid._

It wasn't so bad though. Most of the others had been roped in too with Cary, Charles and Martin lined up beside him.

"Do _you_ know how to swim butterfly?" Charles asked.

"Yeah," Martin said. "I had to do it last year."

The Grade 9 girls were currently racing, which meant Rachel was in the pool. She wasn't doing badly, ducking in and out of the water with smooth strokes. Charles stared after her wistfully. _Does he realise he's being this obvious?_ Joe wondered. Though after what she'd told them, Joe couldn't blame Charles for staring; it'd take a few days to process exactly what she'd been through. _The story's like a fairytale,_ he thought. _Children imprisoned by wicked witches._ He glanced out the window and noticed a thin white streak in the sky.

Joe pointed. "Is that a comet?"

Martin frowned, squinting without his glasses. "It looks like one… uh-oh."

"What?"

"I shouldn't have eaten that candy. I'm going to barf."

He said it with remarkable calm. Joe froze. "Now?"

"Yeah." He clapped a hand over his mouth.

 _Uh…_ Joe whirled around. _What do I do?_ "Just – don't barf in the pool."

"Mmmph. Mmph." Martin staggered forward. Suddenly, his eyes widened, his face a sickly green—

 _BLEEEURGH!_ Streams of pale liquid erupted from his mouth, spurting between his fingers in very impressive quantities.

Luckily, none of it went in the pool. Unluckily, most of it splashed all over Cary's feet.

"What the _frick_ , Martin?!" Cary leapt away, squealing in shock.

 _BLEEUGH!_ Another trickle. The other students groaned in disgust.

"Oh my _god!_ " Cary shouted. "Martin! That's it!" He skipped past the puddle of vomit, grabbed Martin's shoulders and shoved him angrily into the water. The boy fell backwards with a huge splash, still trailing juices. Charles almost died laughing.

It was, all things considered, a memorable day.

* * *

"Look, Alice," Louis said quietly, "I don't know if that's a great idea."

"Can you talk to her, at least? When I saw her she seemed… better."

Louis leaned forwards in his armchair, placing his glass of whiskey on the table. It was getting late. "I won't ask how, or why you've been meeting—"

"Mom approached _me_ ," Alice retorted. "It's all on her."

"You're right. It IS all on her." He sighed, shaking his head, stared at the ground for a long moment. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. "Alice, you gotta understand me. She did a lot of shitty things that are unforgiveable. _I_ did a lot of shitty things that are unforgiveable. It wasn't just me, it wasn't just her. It was both of us. And the thing is… we _had_ our chance. We gave it our best shot – and I got you out of it, so don't think that I regret it. But we both did terrible things, Alice, and time doesn't instantly make 'em better."

Alice stayed quiet. She'd forgotten what'd made her broach the subject; it probably wasn't the best time. Probably never would be.

"Don't just fix things for the sake of fixing them," Louis said. "We might be better off this way… better off without her. And from what you've told me, it sounds like she's doing alright, too."

"I think she is," Alice murmured.

"Good. Sometimes, you get angels in your life. Sometimes, you get demons. Most o' the time, a bit of both. And your mom… she wasn't an angel. But when you _do_ find an angel, you hold onto them tight." The smile looked strange on his face. "You're one of the angels, Ally. Never forget that."

* * *

Charles sat cross-legged on Joe's bed, holding a model Spitfire in his hands. He swooshed it back and forth. "It looks good."

"Thanks. I just figured out this cool technique – what you do is you put some extra gloss on the forward edges, 'cause that's where it catches the light," Joe said. "Like the sun's shining on it."

The aeroplane had a smooth green-brown camouflage pattern, the nosecone pure white, with coloured circles called 'roundels' on the wingtips signifying the British Royal Flying Corps. Like Joe had said, the addition of a few glossy highlights made it look more… alive.

"I don't understand how you have the patience for this," Charles said. "How long's it take?"

"Hours. Days. I've been working on it since school started – not the whole time, obviously, just doing bits when I can't sleep. The weathering stage takes ages."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Weathering stage?"

"Oh my god, there's like – twenty different stages. First you wash it, then do the primer, and pre-shading, then the base colour, a couple of highlights, protection layers, filters – filters are important for camouflage patterns – then some detail painting, a protective layer, plus decals and markings and stuff, dry brushing – I like dry brushing – then _another_ protective layer. And then you start the weathering." Joe grinned. "Chips, dirt, light dust, _heavy_ dust, airbrushing, then detail wear and tear… it's kind of a nightmare."

"Well, I'm impressed." Charles handed the model back. "You're gonna need another shelf soon," he said, glancing around. "Are most of these from your parents?"

"Yeah, I started collecting them as a kid – remember that steam train I had when I was like, six?"

"The one I accidentally stepped on?"

"Yeah. Mom started giving me a model every Christmas, plus one each birthday, so they piled up pretty fast. And after she died, my dad bought me a bunch, 'cause… you know."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a moment, the rain pattering outside. It was after dark (which usually wasn't allowed on a school night) and Joe realised that they hadn't actually _hung out_ much over the past few months. _All those hours I used to spend mucking around with Charles, I'm spending with Alice instead. Which isn't bad_ , _but… I almost forgot how simple life was._ The moon was nearly full tonight, peeking through his bedroom window.

"What if we fail, Joe?" Charles asked.

He took a second to process the question. "Ummm…"

"Because apparently, we're the only people in the world actually fighting this alien invasion. Or at least the only people in North America. It's just us. And that's…" He shook his head, then flopped backwards on the bed, gazing despondently at the ceiling. "I hate it."

"You _hate_ it? It's – it's not 'ideal', but—"

"Yeah. I hate all this leadership stuff. 'Cause look, I don't if you've noticed, but apparently it's always my job to tell everyone what to do."

"That's because you're _good_ at telling people what to do," Joe said.

"Am I?"

"You're a good movie director."

"That's different. I'm _fine_ with movie stuff. I'm not fine with… everything else," he said quietly. "And it _is_ everything else. You guys always look at me when crap goes wrong, as if I've got answers. Like, like when we were under the house. What the heck am _I_ supposed to do in that situation? I don't have answers. None of us do."

Joe struggled to think of one. "You've always been the leader. Ever since we were kids."

"So?"

"There's a reason why that is." He searched for the right words. "Leaders don't always fix problems themselves, but they help _other_ people fix problems. When everybody looks at you, you don't need to hear an answer. They just want to hear… something. Anything. That's all."

"But what if it isn't _right_?" Charles asked plaintively. "That's the whole problem, we haven't got time to fail anymore. _I_ can't fail. I can't be wrong."

 _Crack!_ Outside the window, a tree branch snapped.

"Charles, it's fine. Worrying about it just makes it worse. We don't even know what we're doing yet."

"Oh, sure. Things are 'fine'. There's all the crap happening at school, and my friggin' sister constantly being an asshole, and Russians threatening to nuke the country, and me trying to figure out all this girl stuff without making an ass of myself—"

 _Crack!_ Another branch. Joe glanced curiously at the window but it was impossible to see much outside. Then: _thump, thump, thump_ , like something was walking around in the yard.

"You hear that?" Joe asked.

"Of course I heard it. I'm not deaf. Joe, I am stressing the hell out."

 _Yeah, I gathered._ "Charles, it's fine."

"You keep saying that but it's NOT fine."

 _Crack._ The noise came from _just_ outside the window. Joe frowned. He walked to the glass and pressed his face against it, staring into the night. For a moment, he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing.

Slowly, the darkness resolved into a shape: a large, six-legged shape, with a face and two giant eyes. The flash of recognition almost knocked him off his feet.

He closed his eyes. Opened them. The shape was still there.

"Charles…" Joe hissed, his voice filled with wonder.

"What?"

" _He came back!_ "

* * *

PACKET 131429: Systems nominal

PACKET 131529: Systems nominal

PACKET 131630: Systems nominal

PACKET 131642: Camera activation

PACKET 131645: Camera deactivation

PACKET 131646: Image transmission begun

PACKET 131659: Power error

PACKET 131704: Memory error

PACKET 131706: Image transmission complete

PACKET 131707: Memory error

PACKET 131709: Critical system failure

—Final data packets received from the Mariner 10 space probe, September 20th, 1979

* * *

**Angels, Part 2**

"Who's back?" Charles hissed.

"The alien."

Silence, for a moment. "...No it isn't."

"It is. Charles, I'm staring right at it."

"The nice alien, or the creepy one?"

"The nice one."

"Heck no. That can't be—"

"Heck _yes_."

"Lemme look! Let me look." Charles shoved him aside so they could both look through the window.

And there it was. The creature was crouching low to the ground, six limbs folded underneath like an elephantine spider. Its grey-green body filled most of the front yard – arms and legs as tall as the house, its face as tall as either of them. As they watched, it tilted its head, peering straight at the boys with a curious gaze that glittered in the moonlight.

Joe recognised its eyes – he was certain of it. Those vast, green-speckled irises were hard to forget.

Slowly, the alien reached towards the window. They held their breaths. Its fingers were slender, strangely human; one made a soft _squeak_ as it drew a trail on the glass, a pale smudge left behind.

"I can't believe this is happening," Charles whispered.

"You never saw it up close, right?"

"Yeah, I was too busy babysitting Martin's leg. Why's it _here_? What the hell is it doing?"

 _I don't know._ Joe cautiously touched his palm to the window, imitating it. The creature seemed to… smile, almost, its nostrils flaring, mouth a thin line.

"Oh my god, oh my god," Charles was saying. A pause. "Oh my god."

The alien's face was flat, triangular, topped by a pair of stubby horns which reminded him of Lucy's ears. Its body was covered in bony ridges and webbed skin, giving it the appearance which (at first) had made it so scary: skeletal, yet muscular, like a skinless drawing from a biology textbook. Each leg ended in three tripod-like hooves; its thinner upper arms were clawed and spindly. The alien's central 'abdomen' was actually quite small, most of its mass contained in its powerful limbs.

_It had a name, didn't it? 'Cooper.'_

_If he's the one responsible for the visions, I have to be able to talk to him. If I can just_ think _in the right way…_ Joe concentrated, staring into the creature's eyes. _He's lucky it's night-time, or the neighbours would be panicking hard._ Joe tried to remember how it'd felt when it grabbed him, how it'd felt to go diving into the creature's mind. Once before, they'd been able to communicate—

[Greetings] /cautious

The thought appeared in his mind unbidden, coloured with nervous emotion. Joe blinked. "…Hello?"

The alien stared at him, immobile.

 _Maybe it can't hear you._ Joe closed his eyes, trying to direct his mind outwards at the being in his front yard. [Hello] he thought.

The creature shook with surprise. [Hello] /relief. [Do you understand how to communicate?]

"It talked! It can talk!" Joe exclaimed.

"I didn't hear anything."

"Oh, right. Grab my hand."

Charles did so. Joe closed his eyes again. The creature took a breath, fogging the glass.

[I think so], Joe thought.

[Good] /excited

Charles screamed. "AAAH! Holy shit, was that – it – it was inside my _head_!"

"Yeah, that's how it works." Joe grinned. "Cool, right?"

"Cool. And _fucked up_ —"

"Shhh!" Joe glanced at the alien. "Don't swear. We have to make a good first impression."

"…I guess. But this is really frickin' unexpected—"

Cooper raised his head, looking over his shoulder. [Is this your nest?] /curious. [Strange. Very exposed.]

[Uh… nest? Sure. How… why can we understand each other?]

[I learned your species' brain patterns. Some patterns. Not difficult. Little else to do in captivity] /neutral. [You have questions, I understand this. Surprises. Little time. Swiftness required.]

Then, somebody shouted in the real world. " _Joe? Charles? It's gettin' late, time to head home!"_

"Crap, it's my dad." Joe whirled around, panic rising within him. "We can't let him see Cooper. SURE DAD, WE'LL BE OUT IN A MINUTE!"

"Why?"

"Because he'll _freak out_." [My dad's coming, you have to hide.]

[What is 'dad'?]

[Um, um, um um um – father. Guardian. Parent!]

[Parent. Understood. Parents can be troubling] /amusement/sympathy

"Hey, this dude's pretty smart," Charles said excitedly.

"Looks like it." Joe pulled the curtains shut, covering Cooper's face, then wiped the glass for good measure.

"But if he's smart, why'd he eat all those people?"

"Ask him yourself." [Cooper?]

[Yes?]

[Could you wait for us? On the other side of my nest?]

[Yes]

[And try not to make any noise – be stealthy. Do you know what stealth is?]

[I am stealth]

"Huh." Joe shrugged. "I guess that's a good sign—"

There was a sharp knock on the bedroom door. "Joe?"

In a heartbeat Joe vaulted over his bed, skipped across the carpet and yanked the door open a couple inches – no more – before his dad could even touch the handle. He stood in the gap, blocking the entrance, palms sweaty. "Hi dad."

Jack frowned. "Hey. What're you doing in there?"

"Ah, you know. The usual stuff. Looking at models."

"Clothed ones, I hope."

"Plastic, actually." _Look innocent. Look innocent._

"Can I come in?"

"Uh…" He glanced behind at the curtains; it was impossible to see outside. Joe stepped aside, opening the door all the way. His dad looked _tired_ , his hair unusually messy, with the usual greyish tinge to his face that meant he wasn't getting enough sleep.

"Hi Mr Lamb," Charles said, waving brightly.

"Charles." Jack nodded. "It's late. You both need to get to bed."

Joe feigned checking his watch. "Sorry. I didn't notice."

[How long to wait?] /question

"Um – five minutes."

"Sorry, no can do," Jack said. "Time to go. Mrs Kaznyk will kill me."

Joe realised he'd spoken out loud. _Crap!_ [Five minutes.]

[Unfamiliar term] /puzzled

"A minute is—" _STOP._ [A minute is short. Not long.] Joe realised he was staring blankly into space, his dad staring back at him.

"You okay?" Jack asked.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." He took a deep breath. "Maybe I am tired." He followed his dad out of the room, exchanging a panicky glance with Charles. _This telepathy idea might take a while to get used to._

As they were walking along the hallway, the lights flickered.

"Darn, not the power again," Jack muttered. "It's been a complete mess ever since that 'monster' showed up."

"Mmm," Joe said noncommittally.

 _Bzzzt!_ The lights flashed. Then, the ground seemed to shake under their feet. _Boom. Boom. Boom._

Jack paused. "What's that noise?"

"Probably construction equipment," Charles quipped. "A digger's been parked behind my house all day."

Joe gave him a sneaky thumbs-up.

"Little late to be working, isn't it?" Jack replied. _Boom. Boom…_ Then came a single, larger impact: the roof shuddered, plates and cups rattling in the kitchen cupboards. _Boom!_ "Feels like an earthquake."

 _Or a five-ton_ _alien_ _wandering around._ [Stealthy!] he thought, hard as he could.

[I am stealth]

[Stop moving!]

 _Boom. Boom._ The lights flickered again, switching off for a full second.

But the sounds stopped.

"…Huh." Quickly, Jackson led them to the front door. "Joe, you stay here. I'll take Charles back, I gotta go talk to Mrs Kaznyk about her kitchen—"

"No! Stay. I can ask her." Joe slipped past his dad and stood by the door, leaning on the frame. He opened it. It was cold outside. "I'll go, I can take Charles home. You need to sleep. You look tired."

His dad paused, puzzled. "Ah—"

"Do you have a message? We can ask. Or you could call her." Joe smiled, then discovered he'd forgotten how to. His cheeks stretched unnaturally. _I probably look like the Joker._ He glanced to his right, along the front of the house and saw Cooper's enormous face peering back at him from _right there_ round the corner.

[Go back!] he thought. [Other side!]

[There is no need for panic] /mild irritation

[I need you to stay! Stealthy!]

[…I am stealth] /reproach

Nevertheless, the giant alien stretched and, slowly, moved out of view. Its muscled legs swept across the yard. One brushed against the side of the house with an awfully-loud _scrick!_

Thankfully, Jack didn't notice. "Joe, is something going on with you?"

"No. Nooope. Nothing's going on. Charles, tell him. Nothing's going on."

"Mr Lamb, you have my utmost assurances that nothing's going on," Charles said calmly. "He's just – stressed about school."

Jack pursed his lips, unconvinced. "If he's stressed about school he shouldn't be up so late," he said, fixing Joe with a stare.

 _Point taken._ Joe glanced aside again. His heart skipped a beat. _Oh, no_. Cooper's definition of 'stealthy' apparently included property damage: there were huge divots in the lawn where he'd stood, half-a-dozen shattered flowerpots strewn across the driveway. The garden fence had been trashed in three different places.

"Joe, I'd prefer it if you stayed here. I appreciate the thought, but it'll be easiest if I go myself."

"No! Please. Don't – don't go outside."

" _Why?_ "

"Because it's cold?…"

"Joe. _Enough._ " His dad grabbed his arm and pushed past, onto the porch. Charles followed with a helpless shrug. Joe bit his lip. _He's going to see. He's going to see, and—_

Jack froze.

Cooper was once again peering around the house, which meant his face was about two metres away. Jack stared for a long, interminable moment. Cooper stared back.

 _WOOF! Woof woof!_ Suddenly Lucy raced out the door, leaping down the stairs into the yard, a brown blur. Cooper twitched. The border collie ran back and forth across the grass, yapping furiously at the giant, glistening creature that'd invaded _her_ territory. _Woof! (_ Cooper, for his part, didn't seem particularly fazed.)

"Lucy! Lucy, here!" Joe shouted. He reached for her collar and made her sit beside him, scratching her ears reassuringly. "Shhh. Don't bark."

Lucy panted, whining to herself. She looked scared.

Joe shivered. His dad hadn't moved, the scene deathly quiet.

"Hey, big guy," Jack said eventually. He was, all things considered, quite calm.

The alien blinked. Its triple-eyelids were slightly disconcerting.

"Uh, Mr Lamb?" Charles said helpfully. "It doesn't understand normal speech."

"Then what _does_ it understand?" Jack replied, not moving an inch.

"Thoughts! Joe, show him."

"Umm…" He covered his eyes in despair. _There's not much else you can do._ "Dad, I'm going to tell him to stand on one leg." [This is going to sound weird, but can you balance on one leg?]

[Can] /puzzled

 _He probably doesn't get it_. [It will make my parent trust you.]

Slowly, with a distinct air of unease, the enormous alien unfolded from its hiding spot. It towered above them, rising to tree level. Gracefully it began to balance on one thick limb, the others arrayed around it like a nocturnal starfish.

Jack stared in wonder.

[Okay, thank you. You can stop now.]

Cooper crouched once more, snapping a tree branch on his way down. The noise was startling. Lucy barked.

"You don't have to be afraid of him, dad," Joe said quietly. "He's our friend."

"This thing's your _friend_?"

"Yeah. He's… you would've seen him on the main street. Before he flew away in his spaceship."

"Oh, hell, so that really _did_ happen." Jack took a breath, his shoulders rising and falling. "If he flew away, what's he here for now?"

"I'm not sure. To help, I think." [You want to help?]

Cooper tilted his head. [Help] /determined

Charles nodded.

Abruptly, a switch seemed to flip in Jack's brain. He turned to the boys in full-on police mode. "Alright. I'll take you word for it. But if he's here to help, we need to move him fast, because friendly or not, if one of neighbours walks outside right now there'll be a shitstorm of godly proportions." He grimaced. "Problem is, he's huge – you boys know where we could keep him?"

_He might not have time to dig another bunch of tunnels, especially with the army still around._

"We'll need a heck of a hiding place," Charles said. "And… I think I've got one. It'll be _mint._ "

* * *

[Follow us], Joe thought.

[Follow the metal box?] /query

[Yes.]

Jack's police car reversed out of the driveway, Joe and Charles sitting in the back. They kept to the side roads, driving slowly, heading towards the nearby lake. Every now and Joe glimpsed a huge, grey-skinned shadow behind them, darting between buildings and over fences with long, loping strides. Only glimpses, though – Cooper was doing a good job at staying hidden. (It helped that the streetlights seemed to burn out mysteriously as he passed). They drove through the night.

"There's more aliens, too," Joe said. "Bad ones. Lots of them."

"That so," Jack said.

"Yeah, remember the meteor shower? That was them." _That was us_. "It's why the army's been hanging around."

"…I gotta say, I had my suspicions. I've been doing some investigating of my own." Jack tapped his fingers on the dash. "How do you know they're bad?"

"We talked to one. It said it wanted to kill everybody."

"Fair enough." Jack turned a corner, along Park Avenue. Cooper followed, zig-zagging through the trees. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, shaking his head. "It's like that damn Star Wars movie you boys liked so much."

"Not really," Joe replied.

* * *

The cave entrance was well-hidden amid a tumble of fallen rocks and vegetation. Despite this, it was deceptively large – large enough for Cooper to squeeze into, anyway, and inside it was positively spacious. They ducked through, Jack shining his flashlight.

"This used to be your secret hideout," he said wonderingly.

Charles nodded. "It was the _best_. I haven't been here in years, though. I'm kind of surprised it's still here."

"Why wouldn't it be? Caves are caves."

The main chamber was twenty yards long, formed from smooth slabs of rock. The ceiling sloped steeply towards the rear, twisted and jagged, another chamber visible at the edge of the torchlight.

Joe's mind was suddenly flooded with memories. _We came here during the summers, when we still went camping. Charles' family, Cary's family, my parents… we used to spend hours playing in the rocks, pretending we were wizards, or pirates, or Vikings. What made it stop?_

_I guess we got older. Our parents got older._

He stepped forwards, saw a small object on the ground – a tiny toy helicopter, slightly rusted. _I thought I'd lost this._ He slipped it into his pocket. The tattered remains of a banner still hung from one wall ('Sekret Base, do not enter', the messy paint announced) and a couple of plastic chairs lay tipped in the far corner.

"We never found out how far the caves went, did we," he said aloud.

"I think we were too scared," Charles replied.

It seemed like a good place.

* * *

Brill, thought Joe.

Whoa, thought Cary.

Oh, thought Preston.

Wow, thought Alice.

Interesting, thought Rachel.

Nice one, thought Charles.

There's no way I want any of this icky alien stuff to get on my new red sneakers, thought Martin.

Somehow, everybody had managed to squeeze into the cave (despite the aforementioned icky alien stuff, which Cooper had vomited up). Jack was there too, and even Louis had turned up, dragged along by his daughter. To Joe at least, having grown-ups around still felt wrong, but – _it DOES make things easier. Nicer. Less scary, too. It's honestly hard to think of a negative._

"Jack," Louis said curtly.

"Louis." Jack nodded.

Mr Dainard gazed at the alien. "This is interesting.

"That it is, Louis."

"I knew I wasn't crazy."

"Never said you were."

"Yeah, but everyone else did."

 _We should start,_ Joe thought. _We haven't got much time._ He coughed. "Um, guys? This is Cooper. Cooper, this is… everyone."

The people who hadn't already been staring now turned towards the creature. He was crouching in the cavern's centre on his four largest limbs, the other two raised like branches behind his head. His face was low to the ground, eyes half-closed. Joe wondered if he was trying to appear non-threatening; his current pose was more like a cat than an extra-terrestrial killing machine.

"Cooper's… new here," Joe continued. "He's an alien."

" _Really_ , Joe," Cary said.

"He's – he's quite smart. And nice. Even though he kidnapped Alice. If we all touch him, we'll be able to hear what he says."

"So that _is_ how it works," Preston muttered.

One by one, they stepped forwards to grasp Cooper's outstretched fingers. Alice, oddly, seemed the most confident. His skin was smooth, yet rubbery, pulsing with subsurface warmth.

[Greetings] /formal. The thought boomed inside their skulls.

"Woah," Martin breathed. "Rad."

"Freaking _awesome,_ " said Charles.

Rachel nodded. "Rad." The alien seemed _blue_ to her, when she concentrated with that dark part of her brain: a tangle of blue strings, wound up tight.

[Time is short. I will explain first, then questions. Agree?] /firm.

[Agreed], Joe thought.

[Good. I tried to send you information before, but it is difficult to focus from far. My signal was weak. Jumbled. I am sorry. I attempted to warn you of the attack. I attempted to direct you.] Cooper swung his head back and forth, gazing at each of them in turn. He blinked slowly. [You found my beacon] /gratified. [Standard teleportation beacon. I first intended to use it for me, to call for rescue, but I did not need it. You helped me escape. The beacon was abandoned. Still useful. I led you to it. You know this?]

 _The visions,_ Joe thought. _Those things we all saw… the words, the monsters, the fire in the sky – it WAS him. I'm not crazy! Hooray! Three cheers for Joe._

"I _told_ you guys we were s'posed to use it," Cary muttered. "I told you—"

Suddenly, the alien spasmed. It coughed violently, shaking its head, like a dog with a bee in its ear.

"Aaah!" Cary jumped back, staring nervously. "What's it doing?"

Cooper rocked back and forth, still coughing. ' _Ack! Ack ack ack!_ ' After an anxious moment, it appeared to get the spasm under control; it took a deep, rattling breath, then focused its gaze on Cary. Its eyes narrowed.

[No interruptions] /intense. [No sound from that one. I do not like the sounds.] He shuddered again, skin vibrating. [There was another before, who kept me in my box. Their mouth-sounds were… similar.]

"Oh good," Charles said. "You'll finally have to shut up."

Cary shrugged uneasily. "Okay, I'll be qu—"

Charles covered his mouth.

"—mmph!"

[The beacon was primitive] Cooper continued, a slight edge to his voice. [It was not directed. When activated, T'chorak were closer. T'chorak intercepted the signal. T'chorak came first. They stole our portals. Still, I heard its sounds. We heard its ripples. The beacon was intended to help us get to you before. Before T'chorak. Now we are behind] /unfortunate.

[The T'chorak… they're the bad aliens? The ones with all the tentacles?] Joe asked.

[Tentacles?] /inquisitive

[Big, long, slimy, wriggly things.]

[Yes. Tentacles. T'chorak tentacles] /disgust.

Haltingly, Joe relayed what the T'chorak had told them, underneath the hill. It seemed that telepathy – between the human participants, at least – only worked when they were directly touching. Joe made a mental note to try mind-chatting Charles later on. _Definitely beats a walkie-talkie._ For now, though, it required lots of concentration and even more awkward hand-holding.

[Yes], Cooper replied eventually. [This is correct. Depends on interpretation] /unsure. [T'chorak harvest to combat darkness. Exact method of harvest is unknown. Exact nature of darkness is unknown. T'chorak state the harvest's necessity. There is… some truth to this. Appears useful for survival] /suppressed /irritation.

Suddenly, the alien hissed. [Not acceptable! All species have a right to life. We believe this. T'chorak are wrong. Wrong. Wrong. WRONG!] The hiss echoed through the cave, rising, then falling. [We will help you. Many others have already been snuffed out… Garthans. Urluquai. Tan-ru. All gone. T'chorak harvests. Survival, yes, but at what cost] /sadness. His upper arms drooped limply. [We are watchers. Galaxies are large, cannot watch everyone. I was… assigned to journey to your planet. Before I crashed, I did not know reasons. Now I do] /discomfort. [Your race had alerted T'chorak. Accident, foolish. Lucky I was sent… lucky for you. Not me.]

Slowly, the alien raised its head. [Time for questions.]

Cary and Martin immediately began hissing at one another. ' _I can't believe we're talking to this thing! It's freaky as hell, but this is so COOL—'_ Charles simply grinned like it was Christmas morning. The two adults already appeared overwhelmed, Jack gazing at the ceiling with a bemused expression. Preston and Rachel made a perfectly contrasting pair, one nearly twitching out of his skin with excitement, the other her usual still self.

Alice pursed her lips. [So you're… here to help?]

In Joe's head, her thought bounced with an oddly _fluffy_ sensation, like an especially cuddly pillow.

[Yes] Cooper replied. [We are on our way. Many of us. Many Muktians. Unfortunately, many T'chorak too.]

[That's you? The Muktians?]

[Muktians, yes. Muktians are Watchers] /proud. [And you?]

[We're humans.]

[Humans, yes. Woodward said this.]

[Human means 'thinker'] Preston explained. His thoughts felt bubbly, yet hard. _Like pebbles? A shower of pebbles, raining down on you._

[How exactly will you help?] Alice asked.

[Unsure]

[But – you've allied with other species before, right? How many have you saved?]

Cooper considered this. [Two.]

[Out of how many?]

[Many] /neutral. [Difficult to say.]

"That's just _great_ ," Martin said. "We're totally gonna die."

"Stop being such a worrywart," Cary whispered.

"Bite me— ow! I didn't mean _literally_!"

Cooper shivered.

[When are the others coming?] Joe asked. [The rest of your… fleet. Army. Friends.]

[It will take time. I was close, but others are distant. Unsure of local units of measurement.] The alien seemed to shrug. [Twenty rotations of your planet. Perhaps thirty.]

[A month! That's a month] Preston said excitedly. [Why can't you just teleport here?]

[Spacetime disturbances hazardous in proximity] /caution. [Not wise to re-tear structures so soon. Local strings could erupt.]

"Oh, cool. I _wish_ I knew what that meant."

[What's… what's your world like?] For a second, the voice was unfamiliar; then Joe realised it was his _dad_. His thoughts' cadence reminded Joe of trees – strong, silent trees. _Oak trees._

[My world?] Cooper snorted through his nostrils. [Better than yours, certainly.]

[Did you just _laugh_?]

[No. No laughter. Laughter would be rude] /mischievous. [But my world is better. Less dangerous. This planet is _far_ too close to the sun. Too much open space.]

A cascade of half-formed images pierced Joe's memories: a small, rocky planet orbiting a distant blue star, bursting with labyrinthine passages and shining machines. [I… I saw it] he said. [I saw your world, in the tunnels. I remember… running? You were running. You and another Muktian. You were breaking the rules, I think.]

Cooper turned to him, eyes wide. [You remember. Yes, I shared this with you. It is a precious memory. I am glad you remember.] He seemed to smile, his mouth unfurling like a flower. Cary couldn't resist a half-muttered ' _gross_ '. [I will stay in this place and work] he continued. [I must move my ship here. I must do other things. This will take several rotations.]

[Days], Alice said.

[Understood. Several days. I will prepare as best I can. Busy.]

There was pause, Cooper tilting his head.

[Busy. Busy. Busy.]

The thoughts were strangely monotone.

[Busy. Prepare. Do not look. No. No. Cannot look. Will break. Cannot hide when they are always looking. Little creatures. Poking. No looking. Not again. Prepare. Pre-paaaarrreee… T'chorak wrong! Prisoner! WRONG!]

The final syllable was overpowering, deafening. Cooper blinked – slowly, as if noticing them for the first time – then sat back on his haunches.

[No more questions]

Joe frowned. _What just happened?_ He glanced at Alice, who appeared similarly confused.

[One last question] she began. [Please?]

[…Ask]

[Why are you helping us? We hurt you, we kept you prisoner.] Her brow furrowed. [Surely that means we're bad people. You must… you must hate us.]

[I was enraged, and I hurt you also – is this so different?] /rhetorical. Cooper stretched – an impressive, hexa-limbed motion. [I choose to help you because _you_ help I] /equality. [Muktians fight for humans because this action is correct. I fight for humans because… I think humans are worth saving.]

[Well, you'd better work fast] Jack interrupted, [because in a week or two this whole area's going to be slaughtered by an alien virus.]

This, understandably, was shocking news to the human contingent.

"Uh oh. That's immensely inconvenient," Preston said.

"Like, _our_ area?" Charles asked.

"What's the virus?!" Martin asked.

"Is it the fog? I bet it's the fog."

"WHAT'S THE VIRUS?!"

Cooper scratched his head with a claw, momentarily forgotten. Jack made shushing motions with his hands. "Stay calm – calm – it hasn't happened yet. But the military's been doing tests, and I'm pretty sure they're gonna spread it through Lillian soon just to see what happens – god knows why. I saw it working. It's a horrible thing."

"What does it do?" Charles asked.

"You don't want to know."

"Uh – yes I do."

"The military's responsible? What _assholes_ ," Martin hissed.

"That doesn't make sense," Rachel said. "Uncontrolled infections are stupid. It has to be… some kind of rogue faction, or mistake—"

"—or people who don't know what they're doing," Alice said. "People who've been deceived. If there's anything that English class taught me, it's that every villain's a hero in their own twisted view."

* * *

Lieutenant Forman spun on the rotating chair in his office. The chair was black leather, the backrest tilted, and in one hand was a hot cup of coffee – not piping hot, so that your tongue burned when you drank it, but _just hot enough_. Just right.

He took a sip and felt the strange, bitter taste work its way down his throat. This particular blend was from Ecuador and had a distinct acidic kick. He liked it. He liked a lot of coffee, really – you could, perhaps, call him a connoisseur. In the grand scheme of vices, coffee was a fairly tame one, though he supposed his reliance on it was a weakness. Love of anything was a weakness.

He took another sip. It _was_ good, though. Excellent. Very sharp.

Another sip.

He closed his eyes.

There was no time. Lillian was already gone. So was the surrounding area, maybe even the entire state. The infestation was too advanced, their attackers able to regroup too quickly. They hardly discovered the signs before the creatures moved on. Lillian was gone, and it just didn't know it yet – sad, that such an unremarkable town could be the focal point for such an extraordinary thing.

The creatures were real, though. They were definitely _there_. But finding exactly where 'there' was seemed a very challenging problem. It wasn't one that he could solve, anyway, not with his position, not with his resources. The only thing he could do, really, was attack.

Yes, attack! Release the virus. Find out what it was for, what it could do. There was only so much you could do in a lab and they _needed_ to know more. Letting it simply _be_ a virus was the fastest way of doing so. The town was gone, yes, but this way, at least it could go in a spectacular blaze of glory.

And once they knew what it did, they could use it. (That's what the pale man said, anyway, and anyone who disagreed was foolish – and probably dead). They could use the virus. Use Lillian. Use it against the T'chorak. Perhaps even win. They had the tools, they had the patterns… with enough biomass, perhaps it'd work? It was a long shot, in all honesty, but long shots were all they had left. In one week, or two, a month at most, the world was going to be a very different place. Lillian was simply a beginning; a necessary sacrifice. And if it went bad, they'd be the lucky ones.

Forman spun once more in his chair, sipping delicately on his coffee.

* * *

Mirka strode towards the door of the bio-lab as if she owned the place – which, as a member of the science team, wasn't far from the truth. One thing she definitely _wasn't_ allowed to do, however, was break in at three in the morning to destroy as many virus samples as possible.

 _That's why I'm here, though. Oops!_ Perhaps it wasn't a wise course of action, but instead of simply watching, occasionally you had to _do_ something, especially if that might save peoples' lives. _No virus, no infections, no deaths. Simple._

The bio-lab was connected to the main encampment via a long, hermetically-sealed tunnel. She stepped into the decontamination chamber and waited impatiently for the air to cycle. Fans blasted her from either side, sucking away loose particles of dust. Past the tunnel was a keypad-sealed door and beyond that, the lab itself. She quickly typed her access code – 0451 – and slipped inside.

Her first stroke of luck was that nobody was working (unlikely as that might've been at 3AM). Her second was that the lights were off. The lab was a large, plastic structure, filled with half-packed crates of equipment that revealed its temporary nature. The virus canisters were stored in refrigerated chambers at the far end: perspex enclosures with thick pipes attached. Helium cooling pumps hummed in the background.

Her breath steamed in the icy air. Quickly, she moved through the mess, her eyes adjusting to the dark. The world was grey, black, navy blue. Tall cylinders of liquid helium lined each wall, supplying the refrigerators. Another point of luck: there weren't any cameras in the field lab – how could there be? – in contrast to the primary facility at Springfield.

The virus samples themselves formed a neat little triptych. She stopped before the first and plucked a special tool from her lab coat. It wouldn't take long. _Steal samples, get to the second lab, burn them all in the incinerator. Simple._

She was about to unlock the canister when she noticed she wasn't alone.

Mirka froze. Standing behind the canister, in the shadows – _how did I not see him? How did I not SEE him?! –_ was the pale man. He was thin. Absurdly tall. Even now he was difficult to make out, the neat black suit barely visible, his pale, moon-like face the only thing differentiating him from the gloom.

Mirka straightened, her heart hammering in her chest. The pale man moved towards her, his large, jerky steps reminding her of those awful puppet-shows she'd hated as a child. His jet-black eyes seemed to reflect her own fear.

"I always suspected a leak," he said, voice a paper-thin rasp.

Mirka retreated, nearly stumbling into a crate. "I'm simply – doing some work on the samples," she stammered.

"Spare me your pretensions. Your guilt is obvious. How long?"

"I – I haven't—"

"Months. Years. I could… feel it, on occasion, but never enough to…" He licked his lips. "Regardless. You have been discovered. Come now and you may not die."

She retreated further. If she could just get to the door, or break one of the windows—

"But you will _wish_ for death, Ms. Soderling. I will see to it. Do not run."

The door was too far away. The windows – no, that'd never work. _Shit. Fuck._ What did Sam always say? ' _Attack when the enemy least expects it._ ' She looked at the tool in her hands; no dice. It'd take entire minutes to kill anyone with it. Then she glanced aside, and saw a cylinder standing in the gloom.

The helium cylinders.

Liquid helium was cold, very cold.

Everybody knew that the cylinders were leaky.

Mirka changed direction slightly, making a beeline for one of the cylinders. The pale man followed, unblinking. His skeletal arms dangled by his sides, hands gleaming like bones.

When she came to the nearest cylinder, she stopped. The pale man approached.

"Good," he said simply.

Mirka waited, a million scenarios racing through her head. She tensed.

"Good. This charade has… almost ended. I am… very sorry, Ms. Soderling."

"So am I," she whispered. When the pale man was mere yards distant – when she _could_ see her fear reflected in his eyes – she did several things at once. One hand spun the cylinder valve. Another hand tore at the outflow pipe. Her shoulder shoved _hard_ into the metal.

Step one: open the supply.

Step two: remove the outflow pipe.

Step three: push the fucking thing over.

With surprising swiftness, the enormous metal tank tipped towards her attacker. It hit the ground with a rib-shaking _clang_ and half-a-second later, the top popped off.

A thick white cloud of vapour _burst_ from the cylinder, quickly engulfing him. Mirka stumbled back, shielding her eyes. Liquid helium at a toasty -269 degrees splashed across the lab. Most of it turned to gas, and any parts that didn't instantly froze whatever they touched, plastic cracking, metal shattering, the air suddenly filled with ice.

Something _screamed._ Within the roiling cloud of white, she saw a shadow writhing on its knees, tearing at its clothes, at the air, at itself. The scream was high, desperate, like a bird. The gas swirled, so cold it burned.

There was a _crack_ as one of the man's legs shattered beneath him, ice-blue shards bouncing across the floor.

She didn't stick around for the rest. Mirka fled the lab, the hiss of vapour and the pale man's cries echoing in her ears.

* * *

"Wait up," Joe said. "I forgot my flashlight."

"Alright, I'll be in the car," Jack replied.

Joe turned, walking back towards Cooper's cave. The last few days had been manic _,_ for lack of a better word – the abandoned house, then Rachel, then Cooper's arrival – everything he'd known suddenly thrown into question. Aliens. Superpowers. Good. Evil. Finally the puzzle pieces were starting to fit together: nice aliens and not-so-nice aliens with humans sandwiched in between, thanks to either luck or a series of stupid mistakes.

He ducked through the cave entrance. Cooper was still inside, poking around his temporary home. But the alien seemed… off. The giant creature almost looked _nervous_ – darting from corner to corner, snorting, intensely examining each rock or piece of debris. Occasionally he'd stop in the middle of the chamber, and give a little quiver, as if unsure what to do. His eyes blinked rapidly. A soft, low _rooOOOooo_ escaped from his lips.

Joe was cautious of projecting his own human feelings – _how's an alien supposed to behave anyway?_ – but still, it was odd.

He walked towards the creature until he was a few metres away. It was facing away from him, low to the ground. [Cooper?]

Fast as a whip, the creature turned, rearing over him. Joe recoiled. It roared, swept back its claws, ready to strike—

Then it stopped, frozen. [Apologies] /alarm.

"It's – it's okay," Joe croaked. [I came to collect something.]

[Understood]

The flashlight was lying by the side of the cave. Joe grabbed it, taking care to skirt around the alien. Its huge grey mass slowly retreated, the claws sheathed once more. Joe took a couple of deep breaths.

[Stay, Joe-human] Cooper thought suddenly. [I do not like this place] /worry /neutral.

[You don't like the cave?]

[It is lonely.] Its pupils shrank, becoming tiny black dots that swam in a sea of green. It looked… sorry, almost. Scared. Joe wondered how much its real thoughts had been hidden from them; how much it was pretending. _If it's anything like humans, probably most of it._

[I can't] Joe said.

[Then I will go with you]

He shook his head, staring up at it. [You have to stay here. You need to hide. Otherwise they might catch you again.] He swallowed. [Or worse.]

[I will come with you, Joe-human] /anxious

[You don't need to say the 'human' part. Just 'Joe.']

[I will come with you]

[Cooper, you have to stay here—]

[I can be your friend] /insistent

He shook his head again, more firmly this time. [You have to _stay_ , you CAN'T be seen by them. I'm sorry.]

[I can be your friend.] It crouched before him, its face close to his. [I can be your animal] /submissive.

[No! You aren't my… my animal.] The thought was strangely repulsive. Joe tried projecting calm with his words. [I'm really sorry, but you need to hide. I know it's lonely but we'll be close by – and your friends will be here soon, won't they?]

[Soon. Not soon enough] /unhappy.

Joe reached out with one hand. Gingerly, he touched the alien's arm. He wasn't sure how it would interpret the human gesture, but it didn't seem to mind; its big green eyes fixed him with a sombre gaze.

[You'll be okay], he said.

* * *

Cary slotted a new reel of film into the camera, the others resting between takes. Today, they were filming on the roof of the general store. The roof was dotted with drainpipes and air-conditioning units, the water tower rising further to their left. Sounds of cars and distant conversation bubbled from street level two stories below.

A six-foot-wide matte painting had been stuck to the back of the general store's sign (Charles had sourced it from the print shop where one of his sisters worked). The painting was of a hazy, daytime cityscape, overflowing with apartments and spires and skyscrapers, meant to give the impression of being much higher than they really were. Charles had explained that this was Production Value. Everybody else had groaned. Alice, Martin and Rachel were in costume, the others all on crew duty.

"Dude seems a little crazy," Cary said.

"Who?" Joe asked.

"Alien dude. Cooper."

"Yeah, he was totally wigged," Charles said, adjusting the painting. "It was weird."

"As if talking to him wasn't weird enough," Cary replied. "I'd like to remind everyone he tried to eat us before."

Alice ignored him. "You'd be wigged too if you'd been held prisoner for ten years. It's okay to be a _little_ crazy."

"Plus he's an alien," Joe said. "He thinks… differently."

They waited for Charles to finish whatever he was doing (it was hard to tell, sometimes). He tugged the painting to the left a couple of inches, then to the right. Finally he stepped back to admire his handiwork; satisfied, he returned to the camera. "Off-center," he explained. "Looks bad in the frame."

"We kept that promise," Martin said suddenly. He'd been sitting silently at the edge of the roof, staring at nothing. "On the water tower."

"…Promise?" Rachel asked.

"It was before you were here. We made this promise—"

"It was SO cheesy," Cary interjected.

"—to find that alien again. And discover the truth about everything." Martin shrugged. "We found it, didn't we?"

"All right, enough chatter," Charles barked. "Positions! I want three more takes."

"Three?!" Alice groaned.

"Yeah. _Three_."

The scene began as a touching moment between Alice and Martin's characters – one last calm before the storm. They recited their lines to each other, speaking quietly. They were close together, and after a moment, Alice took Martin's hand, urging him to stay with her. It reminded Joe of their previous movie. _'Mackinac Island's nice this time of year.'_

"Doesn't it feel strange?" Preston whispered in his ear.

"What?"

"Martin, acting out the romance stuff with her. He's getting pretty close. And Alice is…" Preston shrugged. "Technically your girlfriend."

Joe glanced at them. They were still holding hands. "No. No, it's fine." He frowned. "I mean, it's acting. It's what they're supposed to do."

The scene continued. Charles began a slow zoom with the camera, focusing on his two leads. A gust of wind blew across the rooftop, making Alice's hair whip round her ears and he couldn't resist a grin. "This is great."

Then, it was time for Rachel's entrance. She strode in from the other side of the rooftop, capgun in hand, her skin streaked with fake blood.

Alice and Martin had been expecting her. She stopped before them, planting her feet. Alice moved in front of Martin, protecting him. The two girls faced each other by the rooftop's edge like duelling Wild West gunfighters.

"You know who I am, don't you," Rachel said.

Alice nodded.

Joe mouthed the next line along with them. _'I'm you_.' He blinked, and suddenly found himself in a completely different place.

He was no longer on the rooftop. Instead, he was standing on the rim of a vast crater.

Around him, the world was on fire. Strange, four-winged aeroplanes screamed overhead, bright red beams lancing from their underbellies, the earth turning to glass where they hit. Other ships were in pursuit – bulbous and silver – one, two, then half a dozen, bright blue trails spitting from their engines. His jaw dropped in shock. Sensory overload. The air was filled with unearthly screams, the buzz of lighting, the roar of distant fire. Joe looked behind him. Rat-tat-tat machinegun fire assaulted his hearing. A platoon of US army tanks was parked on the ridge, and the closest fired its main cannon at a shape in the crater below. The distant _boom_ threw dirt twenty feet into the air. Something fired back – a multi-legged vehicle, moving quick – and hot green plasma sheared the entire tank in half. Sulphur filled his nose. He gagged. In the very centre of the crater was an enormous black-clad tower, tapered from its base to its atom-thin peak, a red shimmering cylinder of light lancing from within towards the heavens. Planes swarmed around it like wasps. The silhouettes of distant parachutes fell leisurely to earth. Teams of infantry rushed forwards, surrounding writhing, tentacled husks.

Joe stared. Standing on the crater slope, not ten yards away, was a stocky, brown-haired girl. He didn't recognise her, but she certainly seemed to recognise him.

"Joseph!" she shouted, her voice hoarse. "You have to close it from the other side! You can't close it from here!"

Smoke burned in his lungs. He licked his lips, his mouth parched as a desert. The girl pointed at the tower, at the spear of light pulsing from within.

"You have to go to the _other side_!" she shouted.

Without warning, a lizard-like shape pounced at the girl. She didn't have time to react; one second she was there, the next she'd been thrown to the ground, claws deep in her chest – the same type of creature he'd seen under the hill. It hissed, thrashed, biting, tearing until the girl lay still.

The lizard screeched, its colourful scales slicked with blood. Then it leapt at him.

Joe ducked, shielding himself from its crocodilic mouth. Somehow, he grabbed it – held the beast away from him – felt flesh struggling between his fingers, saw it writhing, stronger than he was – he kept a hold and tried to drag it away – pulling it from the girl – towards the edge—

Edge?

Something was… off. The lizard was screaming at him, screaming at him with vaguely human words—

Joe opened his eyes. He took in several things at once.

One: it wasn't a lizard screaming at him. It was Cary.

Two: he had both hands clamped tight around Cary's shoulders.

Three: he was standing at the edge of the roof. This meant he was currently dangling Cary over the edge.

Joe looked down. The alleyway was six yards below. He became aware of other voices shouting at him. _"Joe, wake up!"_ Somebody had their arms around his stomach; probably Charles. _"Wake up!"_

Cary struggled, eyes wild. "Joe! Joe, what the frick are you doing?!"

"Aaah!" he said.

Quick as he could, he stumbled backward, then let Cary go. The boy collapsed onto the rooftop. Joe blinked, utterly confused. His cheeks stung. _Someone hit me._ For the briefest moment, he ignored the panicked shouts to try and focus on where he was. _I'm here. I'm here, in Lillian. September_ _21st, 1979._

"Guys, I'm sorry – just give me a second. I'm sorry." He clenched his fists. _Not again._

Cary stared at him suspiciously. "Joe, you—"

"Just _wait_ ," Alice said.

He winced. "I'm sorry." _I thought this would stop with Cooper here. This isn't supposed to happen anymore!_ He didn't want to look at their faces. Didn't want to see what they thought of him. Instead, he glanced at the painting. In the background, behind the skyscrapers, there was a faint, fiery glow.

_They'll understand. It's getting worse, but they'll understand._

_I can't believe I nearly_ hurt _someone._

Eventually, he had to face them, and their reactions were basically what he expected – all except Rachel's. Her expression was calm, and peculiarly satisfied.

'You're like me,' it said.

* * *

Jack sat behind his desk at the police station whilst Mrs Babbitt described her intruder. "It was huge!" she said, spreading her arms. "Massive! Enormous! Like an elephant! It was nearly midnight, but I _saw_ it cross road. So did the neighbours. Some kind of big… creature."

Jack finished writing down her details, and gave her a very deadpan stare.

"I'll look into it."

* * *

Cary spotted them as he ran home from school: two figures, walking down the street. "I knew Charles was acting weird," he muttered to himself. "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it." He took cover by Donny's electronics store and peered around the corner.

There was Charles. Next to him was (gasp!) Rachel. They were close but heading in the other direction, Charles smiling in a panicky sort of way, probably in the midst of saying something awkward. Rachel unzipped her backpack to take something out.

Cary darted forwards, crouching behind the nearest garbage can. Around him, groups of kids dispersed in all directions, making their own ways home. Yellow schoolbuses rumbled along the street to his left, belching unpleasant amounts of smoke.

"They're walking home together," Cary said to himself. "They're totally doing it. And we all know what that means, since Joe and Alice started doing it too. _It means Charles likes her more than us_." He followed at a safe distance. They were too interested in each other to notice him anyway and he snorted, wondering what the others would think. Soon, they stopped in front of the 7-11.

"So that's where they're going. Why does Charles always to have to stuff his—"

Then Charles walked into the door. He walked, face first, into the frickin' 7-11 glass door.

Cary heard the _clonk_ from twenty yards. He doubled over, mouth clamped shut –

if they heard him giggling he was done for. "Khhkh," he hissed, shaking with laughter. "Khhk khhk khk!"

It took several moments, but he managed to recover – barely. He looked up just in time to see Charles open the door properly, his face red as a beetroot. Rachel, at least, was kind enough to not make a big deal out of it.

"She probably didn't even laugh," Cary said. "Too nice too laugh. Stupid poker face."

They entered the 7-11. The door-chime _dinged_.

Whatever. Charles sure was persistent.

Cary sniffed and walked off, alone in a sea of students. He tried to think about other things, but his mind kept coming back to that image of Charles, walking with a strange, dark-haired girl. "She _is_ strange. I mean, so am I. But Rachel's _weird_." He turned the corner, rolling his eyes. Hopefully his dad would swing by the fireworks place after work – there were these new sparkly ones he REALLY wanted to try. "She's nice though. Nicer than Alice sometimes. Alice can be _mean_ when she wants." He tried to imagine what it'd be like, always having a person to talk to like that. "I guess I don't really have one."

Not his sister. She was still a baby.

Not his parents, obviously. Too serious.

Not even his friends, 'cause in a way, they weren't serious _enough._

And there wasn't anyone else. He knew loads of people at school, and they laughed at his jokes, but they weren't his _friends_. They were just – people.

"People," he said, to no one in particular.

What about _not_ people?

His thoughts drifted back a few nights, to when they were standing in a cave, chatting with a ginormous spider-crab-bear-monster. Or maybe a bug-frog-cat-monster, it was hard to tell. But Cooper was _cool_. He was strong. He was different, too. Cooper wouldn't look at him weirdly like the teachers did, or like the girl across the street was doing now. "I could teach him stuff," Cary said. "He could teach _me_ stuff. I wonder if he likes fireworks."

Cary smiled, nodding his head. "Everybody likes fireworks."

* * *

"Kiss me," Alice said.

"…Here?" Joe asked.

Alice gave him a Look – her 'stop asking dumb questions' look.

"But we're in the sports cupboard," he whispered.

She looked around, in a way that indicated she didn't particularly care. "Yeah. We're in the sports cupboard." Trolleys overflowing with basketballs and baseball bats and other gym equipment were stacked in the darkness around them, the barest hint of dirty grey light falling through too-small windows. The air was cold. Dusty. Through the wall, Joe could hear the muffled echoes of a dodgeball game. It was half-way through fifth period.

"What if somebody comes in?"

"Nobody's coming in," Alice said. "Why would they? Kiss me."

Joe swallowed, his throat suddenly very taut. This didn't feel right. They'd been walking past, Alice had taken his hand, one thing had led to another and now they were… here…

"You first," Joe said quietly.

He was proud of himself for thinking of that one. Alice narrowed her eyes slightly, as if not expecting this display of defiance.

There was a rustle of clothing. Suddenly, her left hand found its way beneath his orange t-shirt and… stayed there, fingertips lightly resting on his chest. He froze – then breathed, barely. _I didn't know it was possible to sweat and get goosebumps at the same time._ Her hand was warm, but steady. Five fingers, five points, each one a beautiful knife into his skin. Into his thoughts.

Her eyes darted aside. "Now… you do it," Alice said.

"What?" he stammered, looking down. "I – I… what?"

"Touch my boob."

"Gah!" He spluttered. "Oh god. Oh my god."

"Joe, touch my boob."

"That just sounds _bad_ —"

"Well, I thought you needed clarification." Alice shrugged. If anything, she seemed to be enjoying his surprise. Her hand moved down his chest, over a rib, stopping at the top of his stomach; he squirmed at the sudden ticklish sensation. _She DOES enjoy this._

"Are… you sure you want me to?" he asked.

Her eyes sparkled, soft but serious. "Yes."

 _Oh._ _OK._

_How should I do this._

_I don't know. Literally no idea._ Slowly, he reached for the hem of her sweater – it was a cream colour, stitched from slightly scratchy wool – and wriggled his fingers under it. Then past another layer of clothing, the fabric stretching and moving over his arm. His hand crept up her skin, up, up to the soft curve of her chest, till he felt something he _thought_ was a bra and he didn't dare go under _that_.

They were connected, now, a strange beast of clothes and oddly-placed fingers. It was so awkward it almost hurt.

But there… there was something else, too. Behind the embarrassment, and the second thoughts, there was anticipation, a thrill, an _impulse_. It polluted him. He could feel her heartbeat. Quick, fluttering, on the left side of her chest. He realised he hadn't actually _looked_ at her for a while, too busy lost in his own racing thoughts, and he glanced up to her eyes.

They were close, real close. He saw her pupils dilate as she stared back, large in the gloom.

 _What if somebody walks in right now? What if they see us like this? We'll get in trouble. We'd probably be SUSPENDED._ His muscles tensed tightly. Alice grinned, her mouth twitching. He wasn't sure why.

"I'm waiting," she whispered.

Joe nearly said sorry. Instead, he leaned forwards.

Their lips touched. Hers tasted of strawberry. Alice's other hand went round the back of his head, scrunching his hair, pulling him close. Suddenly it wasn't awkward anymore, not messy, like some of the other times they'd kissed – instead, a sort of harmony. His right hand stayed underneath her shirt, his left moving up to brush her jaw. Alice liked it when he did the jaw thing, for some reason. Any face stuff, really. He liked it too.

They broke apart, a wet thread stretching, then breaking. _Touch my boob – she actually said that. TOUCH MY BOOB._ His fingers were still there, resting between—

He didn't want to think about it. Not too much. He moved his hand down a little. She shivered.

"Tickles," she said.

"Tickles," he agreed.

She kissed insistently at the side of his mouth. He was stiff as a board when her tongue first snuck its way inside but he quickly melted into it. He loved the way their chests expanded and contracted against one another, the way their foreheads touched. Her left hand was grabbing more instinctively now, more hungrily, her nails making red marks on his skin. One scratched a more sensitive part and he drew breath sharply— his own hand moved in response, brushing softly, around her side, underneath her arm.

And he felt something. He felt a something there, like a raised line of skin, stretching down her ribcage. _A scar?_

The thought left his mind as soon as it entered. His hand moved elsewhere. Alice was beautiful. When their lips were pressed together it was like – it was like Cary's fireworks, all going off at once. Every firework in the world. It was bright. Warm. Fun.

_Exciting._

If they got suspended, it was probably worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More author's notes:
> 
> \- I've considered the alien's return since the beginning, but I had to wait till there was a sensible place to do it. This seems like a sensible place, so I did it. WELCOME TO MY PLANNING PROCESS.  
> \- The opening sequence is basically a direct lift from Aliens, a.k.a. my favourite movie.  
> \- I'd intended to present Rachel's backstory much more organically, but… plans change, and it didn't fit with the story's current direction (hence the infodump).  
> \- Mirka and Rise, from a story perspective, were supposed to introduce a) more female characters, b) more adult characters, and c) more international characters. Super 8 has one female main character vs. like, seven dudes, and I figured it'd be useful to have adults helping out. It also made sense for the aliens to be a more global threat. Ultimately, it was quite challenging (and probably not worth it?) to integrate these extra characters into the plot, though at least it gives me options.  
> \- Credit to the Infinite Space games for the alien names!
> 
> On another note, It does feel slightly awkward to write kissing scenes for fourteen-year-olds… but then I imagine what my friends were like at fourteen, and some kissing definitely did happen. Or at least, they really wanted it to happen (most didn't get past the 'holding hands' stage, me included. OH GOD I WAS SUCH A LITTLE NERD BACK THEN).
> 
> (Still am.)


	34. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have one last 'calm before the storm' chapter before certain events took place. It's basically unnecessary, but just think of this as a (final?) fun time with Joe and co.
> 
> Thanks for reading :-)

" _The world is not yours. The streetlights guide our way, not yours. The world belongs to us who steal kisses at bonfires. To us, who stay up laughing with friends long after you have gone to sleep. To us who dance with reckless abandon. So go home – it belongs to us. We will not go quietly. And we will not go alone."_

\- Zac Gorman

* * *

In the gloom of the cave, the big alien leaned towards Cary, a quizzical tilt to its neck. It had to lean down quite a long way.

The small, blonde-haired boy shook his head. [This sad routine is getting old, you're so _down_ all the time. You need to chill.]

[Chill?] /confused

[Yeah, like, _smile_? You're acting like such a weirdo. Smile once in a while.] Cary grinned, showing off his braces.

[Showing teeth is smiling?]

[Sure, you try it. It means you're happy.]

Cooper blinked. [For Muktians this shows aggression] /unsure. Still, the alien studied Cary's expression, as if trying to understand how the muscles fit together. Then, slowly, its mouthparts peeled open in an imitation of upturned lips… revealing red, wet flesh and a Sarlaac pit of fangs.

Cary's eyes widened. [That's good? Good. Maybe practice in front of a mirror or something.]

[I will practice] /amused. [Woodward did 'smiling' also, but never explained. Strange custom.]

[Look, it's okay. Your mouth doesn't work like ours. What about…] Cary paused. [I know! Step back a bit. Further. Further. Keep going, you've got really long arms.]

Cooper shuffled backwards, glancing over his shoulder. Eventually, its butt hit the wall. It snorted in surprise.

[Sorry.] Cary giggled. The alien was sometimes unexpectedly clumsy, like a drunken hippo. Cary held his right arm out in front and made a fist. [Put your arm out like this.]

Obediently, the alien copied his movements. It used one of its thin upper limbs, long, delicate fingers curling together.

[Okay. So now we have to touch our knuckles together. I'll do it to myself. See? Like this.] Cary put both of his fists together, in a punching kind of motion. [You try.]

Gingerly, five yards of alien muscle stretched across the cave. Cooper squinted, and with a rattling breath, he touched knuckles with the tiny human. One hand dwarfed the other, but it worked – and Cary could tell it was trying hard to be gentle. He grinned.

[That's it!] He opened his fist – "Boom!" – and wiggled his fingers. [That's a fist bump.]

[Fist bump] /affirmative. The creature shivered, which Cary had learned meant 'yes'.

[It's like a friendship gesture – or something that shows respect] he said. [It's pretty versatile. Now, there's this _other_ thing called a 'high five'…]

From across the cavern, Jack Lamb watched them with a stony grimace. Their difference in size was like David and Goliath squared, though this pair at least were friendlier with one another. Cary had taken a real shine to the creature; it still spent _most_ of its time fiddling with arcane machinery, but seemed to have gained a slight fondness for the boy. It was willing to put up with him, at least. Strange. Perhaps it stemmed from the way Cary treated it like it was simply another person, rather than something to be feared, or awed by.

_It SHOULD be feared, though_ , Jack thought. _It_ did _eat and kill three people. Sherriff Pruitt. Dave Rooney. Tina Wheeler. Three good people, dead by that thing's hands._

_Technically, I should arrest it – I'm the Sherriff. That's my_ job _._ A wry smile flickered across his lips, swiftly removed. _I wonder how it would react. Would it fight back? Where would we keep it? The first arrest of an extraterrestrial… do human laws even apply?_

_It might be all buddy-buddy now, but that creature is a killer. One which could arguably plead insanity, but a killer nonetheless._

The kids, of all people, had been the first to forget that. In Jack's mind, they should've been the ones who were scarred most, but they'd apparently brushed off the horrors of the summer. Kids were resilient. _I s'pose the old monster was replaced by new ones… bigger, scarier, and ultimately much less friendly._ As he watched Cary exchange an inter-species high-five – the boy nearly thrown to the ground, despite the alien's attempted gentleness – he couldn't help feeling responsible for keeping them all safe. _That's on me_. _It shouldn't be, but this planet's on an express train to hell and I'm one of the only guys who knows._

The alien turned away, arranging some of the shiny machinery it had begun to amass inside the cave. Most of the objects were unfamiliar, silver and sleek, a far cry from the unsteady towers of very _human_ junk Cary remembered seeing beneath the water tower. There were curving plates, webs of silver frames and, yes, some studded white cubes.

[Are these from your ship?] Cary asked.

[Yes]

[Can I see it? Your ship?]

[No] /blunt.

[Where is it?]

[No. No asking.] The alien stopped. It towered over him, its face moving closer, closer, hints of foam around its mouth, inner eyelids sealed up tight with an unreadable, milky gaze.

Cary's knees wobbled. [Sorry dude.]

[No asking about ship] /waver. It turned back to its work.

Cary frowned. Cooper got all agitated about the weirdest things, sometimes. A lot of the time. Most of the time. [What about your plan? Do you have a plan yet? To stop the bad guys?]

[No plan. Still formulating. What Jack-parent said about the night-towers was interesting. Requires more information.] The alien made some complex motions with its fingers and drew a long, silky wire between two metal plates, which trilled musically, like a songbird.

[Oh, cool. So you've been talking to your friends.]

[Yes. Contacted Muktians.]

[You'd better hurry, because we're going on school camp soon. We'll be MIA for like a week, and I don't think we can get out of it, so if you need help make sure it's before then. I kinda like camp actually, last year's was fun. We went to—]

[Alice-human explained camp to me. Will not be a problem. In truth, camp may be useful for plan] /distracted.

['Kay. I just wanted to make sure you knew. We're like, relying on you… 'cause we have no idea what the hell we're doing no matter how much Charles pretends he does.]

[Affirmative]

Cary rolled his eyes. [No no no no no. You don't say 'affirmative' or shit like that. You say… 'no problem!' Or 'sure!'] He smiled to himself, ducking under the alien's leg as it worked. [And if someone comes off to you with an attitude – like Charles, or Martin – you say 'bite me!' Then when you wanna leave, you say 'later'. And if someone gets upset – usually Charles or Martin again, 'cause they're pussies – you say 'chill out.' Or you can do combinations.]

[Chill out, pussy?] /proposal.

[Holy _crap_ you learn fast. High five!]

[No problem]

* * *

Cooper curled up at the rear of the cave, surrounded by his metal machines. He was alone.

But not for long.

He reached out, and pale blue light rippled from his palm. The light moved with a sense of purpose. It filled the cave with fine points of radiance, forming tides, patterns. A message from his friends. The light settled.

He _dreamembered_.

His sense of body changed, shifted, expanded, until the simple extent of it was mind-numbing – until he felt stars within him, planets, moons, dust clouds, vast expanses of space all contained within his being. With a thought, he could pull his attention to a sun surrounded by unfamiliar planets, as easily as bending a finger or scratching an itch on the back of his neck. The starlights all tasted _different_. Smelled different. He wanted to close his eyes against the flood of sensation, but couldn't. He didn't have anything so simple as eyes. He had become immeasurably large, and rich, and strange, thousands of voices – millions – billions – lifted in chorus.

A star went out.

It wasn't especially unique. It wasn't beautiful. A few voices out of quadrillions went silent and if the great chorus was in any way lessened, it wasn't perceptible. Still, a ripple passed through him. The colours of his consciousness swirled and darkened. Concern, curiosity, alarm, even delight. Something _new_ had happened for the first time in millennia.

Another star flickered and failed. Another few voices went silent. Now, slowly and instantly both – everything changed. He had been beyond anything like a threat for so long that all the reflexes of survival had weakened, atrophied. Cooper felt a fear that he knew belonged to 'him' – the being trapped in the memory – because his larger self couldn't remember how to feel it. The vast parliament of his mind swirled, thoughts, opinions, analysis, poetry blending together and breaking apart, beautiful as sunlight on oil. A great debate raged, a fever, an illness. It was terrifying.

Three suns failed, and Cooper felt himself growing smaller. It was still a tiny fraction, nearly nothing – a scab on the back of his hand, a sore that wouldn't heal – but a fraction his vast self couldn't ignore.

He reached out into the places he had been, the darkened systems that were lost to him, and struck with hands of fire. The fallen stars were mere matter now, empty and dead, bloated, and he filled their systems with a rage of radiation and heat, sheared the electrons from every atom. Systems detonated. Their deaths resonated. Cooper felt a sense of mourning, of peace; the cancer had struck and been burned away. Mortality had returned, and had been cleansed with fire.

A hundred stars failed.

What had once been a song became a _shriek_. Cooper felt his body shifting, furious as a swarm of bees trapped and dying. In despair, the hundred suns were burned away, destruction hurled as fast as the darkness appeared, but the growing shadow could never be stopped. All through his flesh, stars were going out, voices falling into silence. Death rode the vacuum, faster than light and implacable.

He felt the decision grow like a crystal, giving form to the chaos around it, solid, hard, resolute. Desperation. Mourning. A million farewells. The word _quarantine_ came to him, and with the logic of dreams, it carried an unsupportable weight of horror. But within it, like the last remnant of the song… the promise of reunion. One day, when the solution was found, everything that had been lost would be regained. The stars reborn. The vast mind restored.

The moment of dissolution came, sudden and expected, and Cooper blew apart.

He was in darkness. Empty and tiny and lost, waiting for the promise to be fulfilled, waiting for the silent chorus to whisper again that Armageddon had been stopped, that all was _not_ lost.

And silence reigned.

_[Interesting]_ Cooper thought.

* * *

One last night. That was what Charles called it. One last night to have fun, hang out, and have a 'totally rad' time.

Joe knew what he meant. It was nice to just _forget_ about things for a while – aliens, invasions, murders, the virus. Forget, and simply focus on whichever song was currently blasting from the speakers. It was probably the last chance they'd have.

The school gymnasium floated in the brisk Fall night, a lit-up ark. Its windows were stained disco colours. Inside, a few kids were already dancing to 'Video Killed the Radio Star'. Most of the boys had drifted to one side, too cool to dance. Most of the girls had drifted to the other, too cool to dance too. _Discos are tricky_ , Joe thought. _You look like a total idiot if you dance too early, but after one crucial song tips the disco over, you look sad if you don't._

"Why'd they make it Halloween-themed?" Martin asked, dressed as a dapper-looking vampire. "It's not even October."

"Why not? We're not _banned_ from dressing up as monsters during the rest of the year," Preston said. His Egyptian mummy costume consisted of far too much toilet paper, wrapped in a tight cocoon.

"Isn't it hard to move in that?"

"Not really." Preston waved an arm, a strand of toilet paper trailing through the air. "But – all things considered – probably not worth the effort."

"Should've come as a vampire," Martin said. "Look, I've got this dope cape."

He swished said cape. It was pretty dope.

"Whatever," Joe said. "Mummies are cool."

" _Are_ they, Joe? Are they?" Martin asked.

"Sure. And skeletons are cool, too." He wriggled his arms. Joe's costume was all black – black pants, black long-sleeved shirt – with a skeleton painted on top in reflective white paint. Combined with his skull mask, it was decently effective.

Next, the DJ put on 'Stand and Deliver' by Adam and the Ants. 'Stand and Deliver' had a special dance in the music video, where everybody lined up and made an X in the air with their wrists as they paced along to the music. Of the few boys already dancing, everyone wanted to be Adam Ant who danced one step ahead of the pack, so the line got faster and faster up and down the gymnasium till the kids were virtually sprinting.

Joe and the others were content to wait on the sidelines. Coloured lights swept across the floor, a smoke machine puffing and wheezing on the stage. Vaguely spooky decorations hung from the ceiling – paper pumpkins, cobwebs, skulls – and what appeared to be an actual stuffed raven.

_A party for the end of the world,_ he thought. "Where's Charles?" he wondered aloud.

"Dunno," Martin replied. "I thought he came with you."

"Not this time."

"Oh."

They considered the dancefloor.

"Should we… dance?" Joe asked, in a way that suggested, 'Definitely not'.

"Definitely not," Preston said. "I don't like dancing. It feels weird. And terrible. And I can never do it properly."

"But you play piano," Martin said. "Doesn't that make you good at rhythm 'n' stuff?"

"I _make_ music. I don't dance to it." He shook his head distastefully. "Everybody else had better hurry up and get here. Otherwise, I'm going to—"

* * *

"—rip their heads off!" Cary growled. "RRrRGghG!" He shook his head, the fluffy shark costume shaking with it. Cardboard flippers were glued to each arm, a fin sticking out from his back. His grinning face was surrounded by a ring of triangular teeth.

"Is that a shark?" Charles asked.

"Of course it is, dummy. But _which_ shark?"

Charles' eyes lit up. "Oh, wow – it's the shark from Jaws, isn't it. That is _mint_."

"Yup. Raawgh!" He snarled, and dove into the crowd.

Joe grinned. Charles had come as Frankenstein's monster, a pair of bolts protruding from his neck, while Rachel beside him was some kind of creepy ghost girl with stringy black hair dressed all in white. Alice had left momentarily, chatting with some of her other friends. The next song was 'Locomotion', which got all the girls doing a choo-choo dance in a snaky line. Then there was 'Oops Upside Your Head', which had a sort of rowing-boat dance to it. _Not a dance for guys_ , Joe thought. 'House of Fun' by Madness was, though. Charles informed him that it was about buying – whisper – _contraceptives_ but the teachers didn't realise, because they only spotted secret meanings weeks after the dimmest kid in Lillian got it. Then 'Once in a Lifetime' by Talking Heads came on. That was _the_ crucial song that made it less cool not to dance than to dance. Charles joined in, Joe echoing his movements while trying not to look stupid. The DJ switched the strobe light on for a couple of short bursts. (If you kept it on too long peoples' heads might explode – that was the legend, anyway.) Joe realised that dancing was like walking down a busy main street, or tying your shoelaces, or millions of other things. You're absolutely fine as long as you don't think about it. During strobe flashes, through a stormy night forest of necks and arms, he saw Alice. She was doing a sort of Indian goddess dance, swaying and flicking her hands. She _might've_ seen him through the crowd; she might've smiled. It was hard to tell. Next was 'I Feel Love'. Todd Ingram showed off a new craze called breakdancing, but went spinning out of control into a group of girls who toppled like skittles. He had to be rescued by his friends from stabbing female heels.

During Bryan Ferry's 'Jealous Guy' Cameron Loveland got off with Amy Bullock. They kissed in the corner while Cary stood right by them and did his best imitation of a shark attack, but the resulting laughs were envious too. _Then_ , during 'Are Friends Electric', Martin did a dazed robot kind of dance that actually seemed to work. "This song's _ace_!" Charles yelled in Joe's ear. "It's so _futuristic_!" Next up was 'The Monster Mash', because if you had a Halloween-themed disco without it, you were doing things _wrong..._ One of those stupid songs that just made people laugh, all the vampire and ghouls and werewolves joining in. A disco was a zoo, too. Some of the animals were wilder than they were by day, some funnier, some posier, some shyer, some hotter, some the same. Rachel waited in corner, smiling lightly. 'Three Times a Lady' by the Commodores was one of those dreaded 'slow dances' and cleared the floor except for boyfriends and girlfriends, some who enjoyed being looked at, some who forgot they were being looked at, others who didn't want to be looked at but were stuck dancing anyway. Joe waited on the edge of the circle till Alice suddenly appeared out of the crowd.

She held out a hand amidst the treacly whirlwind of lights, movement, sweat. Her eyes were shadowed, her lips blood red.

"Care to dance?" she asked.

Joe grinned. "Not really. But OK." He took her arm, shuffling forward. "Let's stay away from Cary though. He's—"

* * *

"—my mom," Joe murmured. "It just hit me, suddenly… last year, it was her, dropping me off at the dance."

Alice waited, quiet. An EXIT sign glowed alien-green in the dark.

"I remember that she waved. And I waved… and I couldn't wait for her to go, you know? I didn't realise I'd be trying to remember that moment, twelve months later. I can't even picture her face." He looked down, shaking slightly. "She was probably… smiling, I guess."

The disco vibrated the plywood floor. They were behind the stage, in the narrow back room stacked with chairs and shelves of gym equipment.

"I'm sorry," Alice said.

"Don't be." He was silent for a moment. 'Planet Earth' by Duran Duran echoed shyly through the wall. "I just needed to be someplace quiet for a bit."

She stepped back. "Take all the time you need."

Joe closed his eyes, as the DJ transitioned into 'Number Nine Dream'; the song was sort of hippieish, but beautiful all the same.

_She's gone. You let her go._

_Did you?_

_Sometimes, you go a whole day without thinking 'bout her, and other times…_

_Every year's the same, but different. Now the differences always hurt. I wonder what it'll be like at Christmas. I wonder what it'll be like_ next _year._

He sniffed.

"What is it?" Alice asked.

"Nothing." _Dammit._

She moved closer. Every year was the same, but different. He remembered standing on the edge of the stage, watching Cary and Charles argue about dancing. He remembered his mom asking him embarrassing questions about whether he liked any girls. He remembered noticing Alice, across the dancefloor, and suddenly realising how beautiful she was – as if he'd never really _looked_ at her before. As if his brain, somehow, had been looking past her all this time, and then a switch had flipped and… there she was. _I must've been a real idiot before I figured that out._ He remembered thinking about her for months afterwards, occasionally, and hearing her talk in class, seeing her walk by in the hall, and never having the courage or the will to do anything about it.

Alice twizzled his hair. The skin on her shoulder was the softest thing he'd ever felt. She smelled of perfume counters in department stores, and the middle of July, and cinnamon Tic Tacs.

"Better?" she asked, with a serious look.

"Sort of." He rolled his eyes, in a sad-happy way. "Sorry for killing the mood."

" _Changing_ the mood. It's fine to be sad." She shrugged. "Seems appropriate, for a zombie and a skeleton."

Joe smiled. He'd done her zombie makeup earlier – why fix what already worked? – and they made for a morbid couple. He slipped off a woven band Alice wore around her wrist, and slipped it over his own.

"Thief. Get your _own_ top-of-the-line fashion accessories."

"I am. This one's the first in my collection."

"…Deal. But only if you give me your watch."

He gave her the watch. The digital display read '9:03'.

"I'm totally keeping this for the rest of the night," she said. "Where have you been, anyway? I couldn't find you."

"I was mainly talking with Charles."

"Oh yeah?" She put on a jealous voice. "What's Charles got that I haven't? Is he a good kisser?"

" _Charles_? That's revolti—"

Kissing wasn't so tricky anymore. His lips knew what to do, just like sea anemones knew what to do. Still, it spun him, like a fairground teacup ride.

Their teeth clunked.

"Whoops." Alice drew back. "Sorry."

"That's okay – I can glue them back in."

"Haha." Alice spun around, on her tiptoes, gliding away from him in the dark. Joe waited. 'Number Nine Dream' faded to nothing, the world turning its volume down to one. "All of this could be gone, you know?" she said, with a curious voice. "This room. This school. The world. Us. Depending on what happens in the next few weeks."

"Yeah." He didn't know what else to add. "It could."

"The good, the bad, the stuff which isn't really good _or_ bad… it'll disappear." She stopped, turning to face him. "It _can't_ disappear. Good, or bad, it's all _us_. We can't let it."

"I guess not," he murmured.

"This is us. It's everyone. We need to save it."

"Yeah. Alice?"

"Mmm?"

"Let's go back inside—"

* * *

"—Cary's butt," Martin said loudly, raising his voice above the music.

"If I gave you $10,000, you wouldn't eat Cary's butt," Joe repeated.

"Yeah."

"Any butt, or Cary's specifically?"

Martin thought for a moment. "I guess any butt." He grabbed a piece of chocolate from the snacks table that'd sprung up inside the gym. "Is there anything _you_ wouldn't eat for $10,000?"

"Loads of stuff. Like hydrochloric acid, that'd be bad."

"That's not a _food_ , though. Cary's butt is meat – you could cook it. Who knows, maybe it'd be nice."

Joe snorted, taking a handful of potato chips. "Hope we never find out."

The music throbbed. The food table was near the speakers, making it difficult to talk. Most people's costumes were beginning to look a little ragged, facepaint and cardboard falling under the assault of heat and movement and bodies. Martin's dope cape had gone missing half an hour ago, presumably trodden on by swarms of running feet.

Joe adjusted his skeleton mask. Martin seemed… thoughtful. Like he had something on his mind. He munched on his chocolate, tapping his foot, staring across the stage.

"You OK?" Joe asked.

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"…Yeah." Martin shrugged. "No. Sure."

"That's not very definite."

"I'm okay, I guess. But my parents aren't."

"Right."

"Honestly, I don't know. I have _no_ idea what's going to happen. Is that scary? It feels scary."

"Sure." Joe didn't hurry him.

"My sister doesn't want to talk about it. And I don't want to talk to my parents about it. They'd just lie, I think. They'd say everything's fine. But it isn't. I'm pretty sure it isn't." Martin sighed. The song changed, to 'Cut a Long Story Short' by Spandau Ballet. "The uncertainty's killing me."

"It – it'll be alright," Joe said. "In the end."

"It doesn't _feel_ very alright."

"That's because it's not the end yet."

Martin gave him a flat, 'you-think-you're-so-clever' stare. "Nope. But the journey's _terrible_. You coming to that afterparty thing?"

"At Amy's place?"

"Yeah, that one."

Joe nodded. "I think so, my dad said I could go. Who's invited?"

"Everyone, I think. It's kind of her meant to be her birthday party, and kinda not? It's all super confusing. This chocolate's pretty good though." He took one last piece. "Chocolate makes the world better."

They moved off to find the others, just in time to see Cary's attempt at crowdsurfing.

* * *

Every month, Jack made a habit of inviting the Lillian police force round for dinner. Not all of them, obviously – mostly the deputies he called his genuine friends. Those he'd been through police training with, those who'd been his partners. He'd even gone to school with some of 'em.

Now there were five: Rosko, Milner, Crawford, Skadden and Jay, plus an empty chair where Tally was supposed to be. (Jack had predicted Tally wouldn't show, but he'd set it out anyway. At least the chair'd be waiting.) Their voices bounced loudly off the worn, hair-thin carpet – _should really get that changed,_ Jack thought – the slightly tilted wood of the kitchen table draped in a blue-and-yellow-checked cloth.

There was Rosko, greying hair, a glare like a military sergeant with voice to match.

Milner, stubbled cheeks, muscles like an underwear model and the eyes of an angel.

Crawford, round-faced, always quick to display a gap-toothed smile.

Skadden, young and eager, still scrawny as a pine sapling.

Jay, big and swarthy, with a combover so severe it seemed to defy the laws of physics.

Rosko took his Monopoly figure and moved it along the board, hitting each space with a defiant little _tap_. He landed on the first orange street. "I'll buy it," he drawled.

"You got the cash?" Jay asked.

"I always got the cash." He picked out $180 with the care of a centenarian, taking the property card with a swipe. "Your turn."

Milner rolled the dice, which danced clean off the table, coming to a stop by the refrigerator.

"Come on Milner, keep it together," Jay muttered.

"Yeah yeah. I'd like to remind you I'm currently _winning_." He got up to retrieve the dice. "Two fours," he announced.

"While you're over there, could you grab us a beer?"

"Only if you're nice to me."

Jay rolled his eyes, smoothing his combover. "You're the most attractive guy I've ever seen, Milner, and your personality ain't terrible either. How's that?"

"Better 'n' I was expecting, to be honest." Milner chuckled and collected a few bottles from the fridge. "I didn't know you liked me so much."

"Don't get used to it."

The beers were handed out and cracked open by various pocketknives. The cold froth was a perfect companion to the pizza boxes scattered across the table – the best kind of greasy pizza, with meat and olives and too much cheese (if there could ever be such a thing). The type of meal that made you feel vaguely guilty afterwards, but _god_ it was delicious.

Crawford grinned, leaning so far back in his chair Jack was worried he'd break something. "Remember the time we had to chase down that turtle?"

Jack chuckled. "How could I ever forget?"

Skadden frowned. "Turtle?"

"You're too young, Skadden, it was before your time," Crawford said. "But down by the church one morning, four or five years ago – you know James Avenue? – course you do, it's one of the busiest roads in town – one morning, four or five years back, James Avenue was completely blocked because a huge damn snapping turtle had taken up residence in the middle of the road."

"A snapping turtle," Skadden said sceptically.

"Yeah. A snapping turtle. It was huge, and mean, and it refused to budge for anyone – I mean _anyone_ , not even old Pruitt. Trucks, cars, it was holding up the whole damn road. The animal control people were out of state for some reason, so of course, it was up to us to deal with the problem."

Milner moved his Monopoly counter as the others listened to the story. _Tap, tap, tap,_ Community Chest. Receive $20 from the bank for winning a beauty contest (which seemed absurdly appropriate).

"So we got there, me 'n' Jack – sirens on, of course, 'cause we don't do things by halves – and this turtle was sitting there, all nice and ugly, a real nasty-looking reptile. You know avocados?" Crawford paused, shaking his head. "What am I saying, of _course_ you know avocados. Basically, this thing's face was like an avocado had made love to an older, more disgusting avocado. And not gently, either – there was _hate_ involved, like there was something wrong in their avocado relationship and that was all the catharsis they could find."

"What the _heck_ , Crawford," Jay murmured.

"All I'm saying is that it was ugly – do you understand how ugly it was?"

"I do."

"Good. So Jack tried to move the snapper from afar – beeping the horn, throwing sticks at it, that sort of thing – but nothing worked on that slab of shelled meat. So what _I_ do is I go up to the turtle – approaching from behind, obviously, all cautious-like – and I get out my baton and start pushing the damn thing towards the grass."

"You pushed the turtle?" Skadden asked.

"I pushed it. Kept prodding it with the baton, tap tap tap, like Rosko and his damn Monopoly piece… and slowly, like it's the biggest injustice since Pearl Harbour, the beast starts waddling off the road. Waddle waddle waddle. Now, the crowd was cheering by this point—"

"There was a crowd, was there?" Jackson interrupted.

"'Course there was. You were there!"

"A small gathering, maybe. And cheering I definitely _don't_ remember."

Crawford shushed him. "Regardless, the road was being cleared. People were happy. Voila! But, _just_ as we got onto the grass – the turtle shoots his neck out at _lightning_ speed and grabs the baton right out of my hands! Snap! Just like that. He turns away and starts waddling towards the church. I'm telling you, it was embarrassing, being disarmed by a turtle, but if it's one thing you don't expect, it's a turtle being faster than you."

"Snapping turtle catch fish," Milner said thoughtfully. "They have to be fast."

"Probably. So I look back to the squad car in disbelief, and who I do see but Jackson Lamb keying up the police radio. And do you know what he says?"

Skadden leaned forwards. "What?"

"He says – ha! He says '1-1, be advised: suspect is now armed and attempting to flee!"

The table laughed. Most of them had heard the story before, in a dozen different iterations, but the image would never stop being funny.

"'He's very slowly getting away'," Jack added, miming the radio. "Did you ever get the baton back?"

"Nope. Pruitt gave me hell for it but I reckon the beast deserved to keep it – to this day, I like to imagine him wandering around Lillian, snapping at small children. And I'm pretty sure the priest tried to exorcise the thing once it started climbing the church steps, crucifix and all. Whose turn is it?"

"Yours," Jay said, giving him the finger.

"Oh. Sorry." Crawford rolled the dice.

Somehow, they always ended up playing Monopoly. It was like a secret law. This particular set belonged to the station, torn and mended and torn again as it passed down through different groups, and over the years, the board had been customised into something vaguely resembling Lillian. James Avenue had replaced Oxford Street, Mayfair renamed, and his very own Fern Avenue was stuck over Whitechapel Road. Very big on avenues, was Lillian.

Ultimately, it was a shitty game – one that relied too much on luck and usually ended with a fight or blatant cheating. Still, it was a _comforting_ game. When you brought the old box out, it said, ' _let's agree to have a bad time, but hopefully we'll have fun anyway, because it's_ us _having a bad time.'_

So, they played Monopoly.

Jack built three houses on the pink spaces. He was running low on cash; he'd have to be careful.

"How's your kid, Jack?" Milner asked.

"Joe? He's good." He took a slice of pizza. "Does okay at school. He's nearly as tall as me already. Still makes those weird movies with his friends."

"Is he… happy? Emotionally? You know."

"Sure. It's up and down, sometimes… but things are looking up, if you could call it that. We're good."

"Nice to hear. And what about your girl, Rosko – Emily."

"Emily's doing just fine, Milner. And don't you go asking about her too much. I know how you are with women."

"Key word being _women_. Not girls."

"Ha! Suuuure."

Jack felt a tail brush his leg, and gave Lucy a quick scratch. He ate the last bit of cheese from the pizza and sneakily held the crust beneath the table. Eager jaws quickly gobbled it up, then licked his fingers too. (Elizabeth would never have let him feed her, but if humans could have pizza for a treat occasionally, why not dogs?)"Good girl," he whispered.

"Remember," Crawford began, "that time we arrested the drunk girl on the horse?"

* * *

While the kids were out having fun (a.k.a. under teacher supervision), it was a chance for the parents to have fun too – namely, by having a good old-fashioned suburban social gathering, featuring finger food and background jazz and a little too much red wine. Martin's parents had organised the occasion, with ten or so couples chatting in the living area or wandering around their neatly-pruned garden. It was nice, _proper,_ flowing with the kind of easy familiarity of folks who'd known each other for years and years, who'd looked after each other's kids a dozen times over. But behind the smiles and chatter, there was always something more.

Cary's parents wondered how they'd afford payments on the new house. Insurance had covered some of the fire damage, but not enough.

Mr and Mrs Mills were worried about their son's future.

The Kaznyks whispered about the elephant in the room – the little clues, the impacts, whether or not the divorce would go ahead.

Martin's parents had argued earlier that day, and were carefully avoiding one another with brittle smiles.

Rachel's parents hid their nervousness and did their best to remember new names and faces.

Louis Dainard drove through the night, a bottle of whiskey on the passenger seat.

* * *

"Here are all the towers that've been reported – here, here and here." Jack spread a county map across the table, collecting empty beer bottles to make room. "By towers, I mean those creepy black smokestacks the military's always poking around. The fungus-looking ones."

"I heard of some spotted south a little," Skadden said. He took a whiteboard marker and made some X's on the map. There were twelve in total, some in Lillian itself, some round the outskirts, several more in neighbouring towns to the south and north.

"What're they for?" Jay asked.

"Not a clue," Jack replied. "The towers don't do much – just sitting there like trees, far as I can tell. But they're not connected to the military, not directly. Call it a feeling."

They studied the map. Rosko tilted his head, as if trying to see a pattern.

He found one. "Looks like… DNA, or somethin'. Spirally things."

"Double helix?" Milner suggested.

"That's the one – _smart-ass._ "

Rosko was right. Jack played a quick game of join-the-dots, and the shape was certainly similar.

"Interesting," Crawford said. "Anyone got any other bright ideas? This stuff's outta my wheelhouse."

"We're all in the same boat," Miner replied. "But I _do_ have something else." He pulled a sheaf of newspaper clippings from his pocket and spread them out over the map. The dates were scattershot from the past two decades. "I did what you suggested and did some snooping. Turns out there's been a fair bit written about 'weird experiments' – nothing concrete, but lots of rumours, hearsay, that sort of thing. This is all I could find in the library."

Jack scanned the yellowing papers. ' _Springfield laboratory blocks inquiry._ ' ' _Alleged experiments, abuse_.' ' _MKUltra exposed_.' ' _Air force officer named in lawsuit_.' "Give me a summary."

"Turns out the CIA's been accused of doing a lot of illegal experimentation – all in the name of national security of course," Milner said. "The MKUltra program got the most attention, which was about interrogation techniques, and mind control."

"Mind control?" Jay snorted.

"Their words, not mine. There was also something called the Edgewood experiments, looking at 'psychochemical' warfare. Basically, there's been a lotta allegations over the years, enough to mean there's probably some truth in all this. And a lot of it's happened close to home – the Springfield army base is mentioned a number of times."

"Springfield?" Jack frowned. "How come we never figured this out before?"

"I mean, it's a different city, boss," Rosko said. "Not our jurisdiction."

"Still, we should've realised— wait a second." He grabbed one of the clippings, reading aloud. "' _Seven researchers have been named in a new lawsuit today filed today on behalf of former federal research study participants. The apparent head of the research program, Lieutenant Arthur Forman, is said to have been responsible for a set of unethical experiments throughout the past decade…_ ' God-damnit, he's been linked here the whole time! Experiments, research programs…"

"Forman's our friend in charge, right?" Skadden asked.

"Yeah," Jay muttered. "Looks like he's a real mad scientist type."

"He's planning something bad – we have to be ready," Jack said. "As soon as we get a _hint_ of experiments, or a virus, or a military advance, we're gonna have to move fast 'cause Forman's got a history and he's not gonna hesitate." Jack shook his head tiredly. "He's prepared to let this town go to hell, and the worst part is, I reckon he thinks he's in the right. That somehow, he's acting for the greater good."

There was silence for a moment. The deputies exchanged a glance. "You sure about this whole virus thing, Jack?" Rosko asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Fair enough." He leaned back.

"Can't we just… evacuate the town? Get people out?" Milner asked.

"You think they'd let us?" Crawford replied. "During that fire in the summer, the air force had complete control. If we wanna stop this, I'm pretty sure it's going to come down to a fight… or we're going to need to make some very powerful friends."

* * *

" _And we never got tired. And we never got old. We just ran through the streets forever. And everything was perfect."_

\- Zac Gorman

* * *

Holly's house wasn't far from the school, a two-storey place with cedar panelling and a sloping, tiled roof. A couple of neatly-trimmed trees flanked the doorway, as did some brick pillars. Music drifted through a half-open window.

The seven of them walked down the street, towards the entrance.

"So what's the deal with Holly's party?" Joe asked again.

"I heard," Alice began, "from Phoebe Schweiber, who heard from Violet Evergarden, who I _think_ talked to Neal Oakley who's friends with Holly's brother, that their parents are away on a business trip so Holly's brother organised a party for _his_ friends – he's in like, eleventh grade – and Holly totally blackmailed him into letting her invite _her_ friends as well. I think she threatened to snitch to her parents. Half the people I've talked to are going."

"So there'll be old people there," Preston said. "Older kids, I mean."

"Maybe? Phoebe said that Violet heard there was an arrangement."

"An arrangement," Preston repeated.

Cary skipped ahead, shouting over his shoulder. "I heard from Cameron Loveland who talked to Dan Anderson who's best friends with Kim Pine who's nearly-best-friends with Holly and _he_ said it was a make-out party."

Charles stopped in his tracks. "A make-out party?"

"Yeah."

"Nobody told me it was a make-out party."

"I'm surprised," Rachel said.

"Why?"

"You didn't know something."

Charles gave her a long, funny look. "I can't tell if that's a compliment."

Rachel shrugged.

"At least Alice and Joe will fit in," Martin said.

"Uh – what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Joe said quickly.

"It means you make out a lot, right? Like, that's what you do. I've seen you."

Alice nodded, dead serious. "Every night's a make-out party with us."

"Oh god." Joe stared at his feet.

Preston nudged him. "You're not going to French kiss Alice, are you Joe? French kissing's gross. I wouldn't French kiss in a million years."

"And why the hell not?" Charles asked.

"Um, hello? Germs, spit, mucus, old bits of food… that's just to name a few, there's a _lot_ of things in there. I mean, why d'you have to use your tongue anyway? Aren't you supposed to kiss with your lips?"

"Because it's not a real kiss unless you use your tongue," Martin said.

"Why?" Preston asked. "What's the point? What are you supposed to do – lick the inside of her mouth? Are you supposed to lick her teeth?" He frowned. "Do you make your tongue hard or soft?"

"God Preston, enough!" Cary interrupted.

"What? I wanna know, since everybody seems to think French kissing is _so great_."

Alice stopped him. "Okay. Preston. Listen. You put your tongue against her tongue. That's basically it."

"…But what if she puts her tongue too far into my mouth?" Suddenly, he was struck by a sickening thought. "What if I throw up? What if I throw up all over her? What if I throw up in her mouth?"

"Shut up, Preston, that's disgusting!" Charles retorted. "Just stop—"

The front door of the house swung open and a harried-looking girl emerged. She was tall, thin – not far from being _too_ thin – with long brown hair, and the type of eyes that squinted whenever she smiled. She wasn't smiling now. This, combined with her elaborate clown costume, made for a strange first impression.

"Hi Holly," Martin said. "What's up?"

"Stuff. _Lots_ of stuff." She sighed. "Can you help?"

* * *

And that was how Martin found himself smuggling a beer keg up the stairs. He crouched down, pushing with both hands, while Cary tugged the other end with as much force as he could muster (which wasn't much, because the squat steel cylinder weighed near as much as he did).

"Push!" Cary hissed.

"I _am_ pushing. It's heavy."

"Careful! Watch my foot!"

"Hey, it's your foot – you can watch it too, you know."

Holly led the way, keeping watch. Although the hallway was currently deserted, sounds of the party echoed from the other side of the wall. "I don't want the house getting wrecked," she explained quietly. "I didn't realise my brother would organise alcohol – I didn't think he knew how to _get_ alcohol! But the older guys are already WAY too drunk and if somebody breaks something and my parents realise we did this then I am _super_ grounded. Forever." She picked at the strap of her clown overalls. Her face was painted the traditional solid white, with a red nose and pencil-thin eyebrows. Her makeup was slightly… off, though, as if the clown was a bit sad, and had been sad for a very long time, and _maybe_ wanted to murder someone?

_That's basically all clowns, though_ , Martin thought. _Which makes me very uncomfortable._ "Isn't – isn't everyone already drunk?" he asked. "They sound pretty drunk." In response, a girl whooped loudly, followed by a chorus of muffled cheers. Empty bottles clinked against the table.

Holly winced. "They are. But they have two kegs, so I figure if we hide one… it might not get any worse?"

"Sure."

Cary kicked a chip packet out of the way. He tapped the keg. "This is beer, right?" he asked casually.

"Yeah. Cheap stuff, I think."

"Cool. Cool."

They reached the top of the stairs. Holly poked her head around the corner. "It's clear," she said. "Come on. We'll hide it in my bedroom."

Martin grunted acknowledgement. He kept pushing. The carpet underfoot was nearly thick enough to hide in, and the hallway had the sort of soft, yellow lighting that reminded him of an art gallery. The whole house was like that, actually – lots of weird paintings on the walls, shelves with fancy vases on them. "Nice house," he muttered.

"Thanks," Holly said. "My parents have- hurry, someone's coming. In here!"

Fast as they could, Cary and Martin waddled into Holly's bedroom. (The décor could best be described as 'traditional', with rather too much pink and a string of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling.) They rolled the keg inside as Holly shut the door behind them.

Martin wiped his hands on his vampire cape. "Where d'you want to put it?"

"The closet?" Holly suggested. "Thanks a lot, by the way – if this works, I owe you, big time."

"That's OK." He focused all of his acting talent on looking casual. _Cool, calm, collected. That's me._ "No problem. Happy to help."

Holly smiled with ghoulish red lips. He shivered involuntarily. "…Holly?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

"Question. Why'd you dress up as a clown?"

"I've always been afraid of them. Plus I thought no one else would go as one, so that's a bonus."

"Unique costumes are the best," Cary agreed, wiggling his shark fins.

"Right. And clowns… there's something _weird_ about 'em. I reckon it's the makeup." She patted her pockets. "I had a fake knife, too, so I could smile at people and pretend to stab them."

"Mmm. Great." Martin thought about clowns, with knives, coming to stab him in the dark. Smiling – ALWAYS smiling. _I swear I used to have nightmares about this._ Holly pushed some clothes aside and together, Martin and Cary manhandled the keg into the gap. They could barely manage between the two of them, and it was a tight squeeze.

"Is it in all the way?" Martin asked breathlessly.

"That's what she said," Cary giggled.

"Shut up. Get out the way."

" _You_ get out the way. It's your leg blocking it."

"Fine – ready? Let's drop it on three, two, one—"

Cary dropped on one. Martin dropped on zero, thinking about clowns. The keg _clunked_ on the wood with a gong-like sound and a brief jet of beer escaped from the nozzle. Cary leapt aside just in time but Martin's reflexes weren't quite so fast. _Splat!_

"Oh, _man_ …" He groaned miserably at the sudden dampness around his crotch.

"Ha! Good work, Smartin. I didn't know you still wet your pants."

"This is _YOUR_ fault for dropping it early!" On top of being uncomfortable, and wet, the beer had created the most embarrassing stain possible. He nearly turned to face Holly but thought better of it, instead looking over his shoulder. _I hate myself_. "Uh… can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah, sure – down the hall."

There was a knock on the bedroom door, followed by a girl's voice: " _Everything OK in there?_ "

"Argh, _shitwaffle_ ," Holly hissed. "Yeah, just looking for something! Be out in a minute!"

Cary giggled. "Shitwaffle?"

"Use your imagination." Holly grinned then opened the door, disappearing into the corridor. They heard her chatting to someone animatedly, the voices close, then gradually growing softer.

"I'm gonna go clean my pants," Martin said glumly. "Can you guard the keg?"

"Yeah, sure." Cary rolled his eyes. "…Sorry."

"…what was that?"

"I said sorry."

Martin blinked. "Cary. _Cary_. Did you just _apologise_? Is this a thing you do now?"

"God, Martin, you're making it weird! Why do I put up with your shit?"

"What? Hello!? Why do I put up with YOUR shit!"

"'Cause I'm dressed as a shark."

Martin frowned for a moment. Then he shook his head and left the room.

Cary shrugged, and stared at the beer keg.

The keg stared back.

* * *

_Summer loving, had me a blast_

_Summer loving, happened so fast_

_I met a girl, crazy for meeee_

_Met a boy, cute as can be_

_Summer days, drifting awaaay to oh-oh the summer nights_

So far, the party had been confined to the ground floor (and the basement, where some of the younger crowd had holed up, sheltering from the tornado of increasingly-rowdy seniors). People lounged against walls or on sofas, sitting on cushions with plastic cups in hand, chatting over the static-y tunes of a _Grease_ _Lightning_ mixtape. Occasionally there was a splash from the pool in the yard as another person dived in – or fell in, depending on the amount of yelling afterwards.

Holly dodged through the crowd, collecting vases and anything remotely breakable. She noticed one of her brother's friends sitting on the coffee table and tapped his shoulder nervously. Was his name Steve? It was probably Steve. "Um – could you – could you not sit on that? Please? It's glass."

A couple of feet away, in the kitchen, Charles was busy arguing – or debating, if you wanted to be charitable – with Daniel Anderson and Phoebe Schweiber. Dan was African-American. Phoebe was Jewish. This, in fact, was the current debate topic.

"I'm telling you Charlie-boy, I get it every day," Dan said, unzipping his puffy jacket and laying it on the bench.

"What are you talking about?" Charles retorted. "Dan, you're one of the most popular kids in school—"

"Nuh-uh! Nuh-uh! It's like REVERSE discrimination." He spread his hands. "See? I'm a novelty to _everyone_."

Phoebe shrugged. "I could live with that."

"Nah, Phoebe, you wouldn't want to trade places, believe me."

"I dunno… I mean, I'm Jewish. That's no cakewalk either. I was elected school treasurer last year and I didn't even _run_."

"Right right right right, but see, my people were kidnapped from our homeland and brought here to be slaves. That's heavy."

"My people were slaves too," Phoebe said. "We built the _pyramids_."

"Sure – three thousand years ago!"

"Which doesn't make the bricks any lighter, does it?"

"…guess not." Charles wondered whether to bring up the fact that his own grandparents had fled from Nazi-occupied Poland, but decided against it. _Let's not make this the oppression Olympics._

Suddenly, Alice appeared beside him, ducking behind a group of seniors. "Hi Phoebe. Hi Dan."

"Hey."

"Hi."

"Have you seen Rachel?" Alice asked.

Charles frowned. "No, why?"

"I haven't seen her for a while. Someone said she looked sick."

"Sick? What? Why? Uh-oh. Bad sick, or just normal sick?"

"I don't _know_ , Charles, that's why I'm looking for her."

"Right." He clenched his fists. "I'll help. She's probably fine, right? She's probably fine. I mean, she's the kind of person who just… wanders off sometimes. I think – I'm pretty sure I last saw her near the pool table? Yeah, the pool table. She was watching from the corner."

* * *

Alice wandered down the hallway, past the kitchen. _Rachel has to be around here somewhere. This house isn't_ that _big._ She rubbed her eyes, and sighed when her hands came away covered in zombie eyeshadow. _Whoops._ When Holly had said 'party', Alice hadn't really been expecting… whatever this was – Holly probably hadn't either – but she couldn't deny it was interesting. _Alcohol. Seniors. A bunch of fourteen-year-olds hanging around making it awkward. Yay._

When she entered the games room, she saw Joe standing by the billiards table, gingerly holding a cue. Next to him were three older students whom she vaguely recognised as twelfth-graders. She was pretty sure the tallest was the student council vice president.

Joe leaned forwards, stabbing at the ball. She heard a _clack!_ Nothing much happened.

"Joe."

He spun round, vaguely terrified. "Alice?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure. Yeah. You totally can." He handed the cue to one of the boys like it was a burning poker, then hurried over to her.

"I didn't know you played billiards."

"I don't," he whispered. "I'm really bad. I'm _SO_ bad. But I walked in here by accident and they needed another person and then they asked me to play and I couldn't say no. They're… big."

"They're seniors." She glanced over. "They're not monsters."

"Yes, but I think they're drunk. Please help."

She pretended to think about it, then rolled her eyes. "Fine." _Time to put that 'ditzy-blonde-girl' smile to use._ "Hey guys, looks fun. Can I try?"

Student-vice-president sipped his beer. "Uh – sure."

Alice took the stick, flashing a grin. "Which one do I aim for?"

"Any of the smaller balls. Oh, except the black one."

She leaned down, finding an angle. Half-a-dozen balls remained on the thin green felt. Yellow looked promising, sitting right next to the far-left pocket, and she brushed her fringe out of the way. Aimed. Drew back.

"You need any help?" vice-president asked.

She held her breath. "No." _Clack!_

The shot spun dead-on, knocking hard into yellow, which dropped into the pocket with a satisfying _clunk_. _Angles_ , she thought. That's all it was. She stood up, handing the cue back. "You're welcome."

"Uh – thanks. Huh. Cool." The boy drank some beer, then gave the other team the finger. Alice grabbed Joe's arm and dragged him to freedom.

"You're the worst," Joe said.

"What?"

"You're the _worst_."

"It isn't my fault my dad likes billiards."

* * *

Holly had emphasised that guarding the beer keg was an extremely important job. She'd been very clear on that. _Extremely. Important._ Cary wasn't sure he agreed, since it meant hanging out in her bedroom while everybody else had fun downstairs, but whatever. Holly was cool. Martin still hadn't come back from the bathroom either and it'd been ten whole minutes. _Ten_. What was he doing in there? Having a baby?

Cary stared at the keg, bouncing slightly on the bed.

He had a thought.

He jumped off the bed, crouching by the keg. There was a small black nozzle on the side. He lay down, shuffling along until his mouth was directly under it. He gripped the nozzle. Grinned. Opened it for a split-second.

Foam splashed down his throat. "Eugh!" The taste hit him like a brick – sour, bitter, like somebody had mixed Coke and lemon juice and that disgusting dark chocolate adults liked. He coughed a few times, turned sideways, resisting the urge to spit. _People LIKE this stuff?_ He punched the keg petulantly. It wasn't very effective.

But people _did_ like it. His parents liked it. Movie stars liked it. The guys and girls downstairs DEFINITELY liked it. Maybe – aha! – maybe the trick was that he hadn't had _enough_ of it. Because from what he could see, cool people drank beer.

_I'm_ _cool_ , Cary thought. _Right?_

_I'm totally cool. Screw Charles and Joe and the rest. And screw Martin, wherever he went._ There was a glass of water on Holly's bedside table and he picked it up, chucked the water out the window, and filled it to the brim from the keg. The deep brown liquid sparkled invitingly. Bubbles popped and hissed.

Cary took a breath, gritted his teeth, and drank.

* * *

Martin stared at his hand of cards. Three kings and a five. Was that good? Three kings _had_ to be okay. He shrugged inwardly. (Martin had never technically played poker before, but it seemed simple enough – all you had to do was collect certain patterns – and his own pile of plastic chips was already bigger than most others around the table.) The players pondered their hands in silence with varying degrees of poker-face. The only two still in – apart from him – were Kim, a ginger-haired girl who'd been his lab partner in biology once, and Holly, who'd finally finished hiding all of her parents' breakable objects. Every time he saw her he had to stop himself from twitching. _That stupid clown-face is actually going to haunt me._ The eyes were the worst, he decided. Or was it the mouth? No, the eyes, with their empty scarlet stare.

One by one, they drew another card.

Kim narrowed her eyes, then sighed disgustedly. "I fold… wait." She peeked at her cards. "Nope, still terrible."

"Aww, I thought you were having fun," Holly said, sounding vaguely condescending.

Kim gave her a corpse-like stare. "Do I look like I'm having fun?"

"Honestly? It's hard to tell with you."

Martin looked down. He'd drawn a five. Three kings, two fives – that was decent. Very decent. He pursed his lips; for some reason, he thought he was forgetting something. "I guess I'll stay in?"

"You're staying in," Holly replied.

"Yeah. I think so."

"You don't sound very certain."

"Am I supposed to?"

Holly pinned him with an inquiring glare. Martin ignored it, rubbing his glasses. _Clown, clown, ignore the clown._ _I swear I'm forgetting something. Did I leave anything in the bathroom?_

"…I'll stay in too," Holly said eventually. "All in." She shoved her chips into the centre of the table. This was followed by the requisite amount of ' _oooooh_ s'.

Martin shrugged. "Sure." Gratifyingly, his pile of chips was slightly bigger.

"Okay," Kim intoned. "Both of you, show us your cards. I'm very excited."

Holly grinned. "Has anyone ever told you you're basically 100% sarcasm?"

"Yes."

"Just checking." Holly flipped her cards, with pauses for dramatic effect. "Three of spades! Five of spades! Seven of spades! Nine of spades… and king of spades! That's right, it's a flush."

Martin turned his over. "Are these good?"

"Oh, what the _heck?_!" She slapped the table. "I thought you were bluffing!"

"…What? Did I win?"

"Course you did, that's a full house!"

"Oh, OK. Cool."

" _Nobody_ can look that confused and still know what they're doing. Nobody! Argh!"

"Sure. I'll take these." He swept the pile of chips towards him, which was swiftly becoming a small hill. Then he saw Alice, walking across the room. Joe was following her. He waved.

"Hey. Have you seen Rachel?" Alice asked.

"Uh – nope. Sorry."

"Looks like you're winning," Joe added.

"It turns out that if you're confused the whole time, you can do really well at poker." Martin coughed, looking at the other players. "Or maybe I'm pretending and I'm actually an expert. Who knows."

* * *

Preston sat on the plush white sofa. Behind him, a group of seniors were crowding the TV, cheering occasionally whenever 'sports' happened. _Hooray! He's kicked the ball. Now the ball's over there. That man has it now. That's an interesting development. Maybe he'll throw the ball. He has indeed, and apparently that deserves a round of applause._ Thankfully, the stereo in the next room had ended its Grease Lightning rotation and transitioned into Led Zeppelin. A ghost and a serial killer were dancing to it in the doorway. Someone had given him a cup of something. He'd tried it; hadn't liked it. Weird sort of taste. He placed it on the coffee table with the other half-empty cups, and looked around for people he recognised.

Two more people sat on the sofa, at the far end. Girls. He gave them a quick peek.

It was Phoebe Schweiber and Violet Evergarden, both his grade at school. Phoebe was student treasurer (which immediately put her in Preston's good books), and her dark eyebrows always reminded him of very expressive caterpillars – not in a bad way, but they could _move_. Violet was a cheerleader. Short, though, and she seemed to _hate_ being short. Very bouncy blonde hair, 'specially when she danced.

He pressed his knees together, arms in his lap, staring anywhere but their direction. You were supposed to say things in these situations, weren't you? When girls sat next to you, there were things. Things to say. Conversations. He became all too aware of his Egyptian mummy costume, which was gradually falling to pieces around him. Toilet paper: not the soundest material, structurally.

"Hey Preston," Phoebe said brightly.

"Oh – hi Phoebe. I didn't see you there." He swivelled to face them. "So. How's it going?"

"Pretty good."

It wasn't much to work with in terms of conversation topics. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Where are all the cute guys?" Violet asked. "Holly said she invited the cute guys."

"Wha?" _Say something. Say something_. "The bus… hasn't arrived yet?"

Violet frowned, then chuckled. "Right. Of course. Hey, you play piano, right?"

Preston blinked. "Yes, I suppose that's accurate. I'm not amazing but I've been learning for several years."

"Well, there's a piano" – she pointed to the lounge room, where most people had gathered – "right there. Can you play any cool songs?"

_If by 'cool' you mean Beethoven, then yes._ Out loud, he said, "Probably."

"Okay. Come with me." Violet grabbed his wrist. Her fingers were ice-cold.

"Ummm… what are you doing?"

"Go and play something," Phoebe said. She grabbed his other arm, dragging him to his feet.

"That's not – I don't think that's a great idea – I haven't practiced—"

"It'll be _fine_."

He tried to pull away, but embarrassingly they were stronger than he was. They pushed him towards the piano. "Come on."

"No – wait, I don't—"

"Come _on_ , Preston. I bet you're really good."

"No. No. No no no no no—"

* * *

Joe wandered into the living room, just in time to see Preston being manhandled through the doorway by a pair of very determined girls. Preston kicked at the carpet, slipping futilely, sheets of toilet paper soaring into the air.

"Huh," Joe said.

Alice spared him a glance but kept walking. "He'll be fine. It's not like Phoebe will eat him alive." She tilted her head. "Violet could, though. If she wanted to."

Joe hurried to catch up. "When you say 'eat him alive'…"

"Literally. No metaphors involved. Do you think Rachel could be upstairs?"

They entered the hallway, aiming for the stairs. A body was already snoring in the corner – an older girl, slumped over a cushion, legs curled at a funny angle. Joe stared, carefully avoiding her shoes.

"You're doing that thing again," Alice said.

"What?"

"That thing where you stare real hard at something with your mouth half-open. You look like a postbox."

"…that's the _weirdest_ thing anybody's said to me today. A postbox?"

"You do, though. Your mouth's like the slot you put mail in. It's very square."

"Huh." Joe clamped his jaw shut. They climbed the stairs, Alice leading the way, two steps at a time.

"What were you thinking about, anyway?" she asked.

"Boring stuff."

"Boring? Now I really need to know."

"As long as you promise not to laugh."

"I won't laugh."

"Basically, when I get home, I was thinking I should wash my legs. Because this costume's really sweaty." He pinched the fabric, stretching it, then let it snap back in place.

"Yep, that's pretty boring. Not to get _too_ far into hygiene habits, but is that implying you don't _usually_ wash your legs?"

"Um… nope, not really."

Alice stopped. She spun to face him. "You don't wash your legs?" she asked, incredulous.

"No – why? Water falls on them anyway."

"You take _showers_ and you don't wash your legs."

"Am I meant to? Like, bend down, and… wash them? That'd take ages. No time."

"Yesterday you spent the _entire_ fifth period drawing a maze!"

"An _awesome_ maze," he said defensively. "And I _had_ time because I didn't wash my legs."

Alice stared at him, eyes narrowed. Joe pressed his lips together in a 'what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it?' pout.

"You're the worst," she said. "Not me. _You are_." She trudged off down the hallway.

The first room they checked must've belonged to Holly's parents, with a neatly-made double bed, untouched. The next was a chilly bathroom that smelled faintly of beer. Third was Holly's bedroom. Alice knocked quietly. "Is anyone in there?"

There was a burp. "Uh… nope."

Alice paused, then pushed the door open.

"We have a problem," she said.

Cary lay spreadeagle on the floor, surrounded by crumpled bits of shark costume. He still had a half-full cup of beer in one hand; he sat up suddenly when they entered and it sloshed messily onto the carpet. Somehow, he'd lifted the keg onto the bed, where Joe noticed quite a few damp patches. _Holly's going to be so mad. SO mad._

Cary raised his glass at them. "Hey! Heyyouguys – you wanna – you wanna try some? Ish really good. Realgood!" He burped again, then lay back down. "Ugh."

Alice smiled grimly. "I'll go and get Charles.

Joe nodded. "OK."

"You look after him. Make sure he doesn't have any more."

"What? How do I—" He turned to Cary, who'd rolled over and started crawling feebly towards the keg. It was like watching a particularly gawky snake. "Hey. Cary. _Hey._ "

Cary grinned, glassy-eyed. "Joe. Duuuude. You want shome? It's… wass the word. It's cool. We're cool dudes, Joe. Shuuuper coooool."

"No, Cary, you have to stop. Let's go outside."

"Nope!" He belched, then darted towards the keg at possessed-demon-child speeds. Joe ran in front to block him, seizing his shoulders, pushed him back; Cary tripped over his own legs and flailed to the deck. "Ow!"

Joe winced. "Sorry."

Cary gave Joe an accusing glare. He half-got up, then lost his balance and tipped over again. "What was THAT for? I'm having – I'mhavingfun and you _pushed_ me!"

"Just… don't drink any more! Let's, uh… let's sit over here." He steered Cary towards a pile of plush toys in the corner.

"Hey Joe."

"What?"

"You're _nice_. But right now you're being MEAN."

"Sure, Cary."

"Hey Joe."

"What?"

"Haveyouever— atchoo!" He sneezed violently, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Have you ever thought about setting Alish's hair on fire?"

"Uhh…"

"Or anyone's hair on fire. Wouldn't that be awesome?"

"No! No, that could _seriously_ hurt them. Don't do that." He positioned Cary near the window and made him sit, propped against the corner. He was floppy as a fish, bones turned to mush. _How much did he manage to drink? He's small,_ _but he wasn't alone for that_ _long. Three glasses? Five? How quick does beer make you drunk? Too many questions._

"Oh my god," Charles said, coming through the doorway. "Oh my _god_."

"Heeeey Chaaaarlesh," Cary muttered. "Wassup?"

"You making a giant scene is what's UP!" Charles stalked towards him. "You're such an idiot! Seriously, it's like we can't leave you alone for five seconds! _Why?!_ Ugh." He looked genuinely pissed.

So did Cary. "Caush I'm _cool_. Charles, you should _try_ shome of this. Iss good."

"No!… Uh, maybe later."

"Thash tha shpirit!"

Charles gave them a despairing look. "Guys, what are we going to do – we can't leave him like this. He's wasted."

"We can, actually," Alice said coolly. "I mean, it's his own fault. Not our problem. Plus it's kinda funny. Cary, stand on one leg."

"One leg? Al- _right._ " He got to his knees unsteadily, then tried to stand, using the wall for support. "I'm funny. I'm veeeery fun— funny. Whoaaaaaops!" He keeled face-first into the carpet.

Charles winced. "Don't people get sick from this stuff? God, Cary, I can't believe you actually did this! You always mess things up. This is serious!"

"Lay off, it's not _that_ bad," Joe murmured. "We'll just have to look after him for a bit. Cary? How are you feeling?"

He lifted his face off the floor. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Please don't."

"Okaaaaay."

"Can you remember how much stuff you drank?"

"Nup! Lotsh though. Wass the word? There's a _word…_ a word…Hey, this floor feels _weird._ Uh-oh, still gonna throw up." He yawned, rolling over. "Shleepy! Shleepy shleepy shleepy."

Joe giggled. "He _is_ wasted."

Charles stared to the heavens, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Ugh, what the hell, I guess we gotta do something. I'll move the keg somewhere if you two can keep watch. Let's just hope we don't have to take him to the hospital." He glared at Cary. "And YOU. Don't do ANYTHING. If you move even a single muscle I _swear_ I'll skin you alive."

* * *

The chords to My Sharona weren't terribly hard, and Preston had heard it on the radio enough times to know how it went by heart. The main bit – _dah dah dah dah da-da-da-da dah dah –_ was all octaves anyway. He started low on the left hand to give it some bass, the other hand near the middle of the piano for the melody, still blushing as the first notes rang out.

_Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty one_

_When you gonna give me some tiiime, Sharona_

_Ooh, you make my motor run, my motor run_

_Got it coming off o' the liiine, Sharona_

It was honestly a catchy tune (though the lyrics were slightly suggestive). Were people singing along? It'd been quiet at first, just Phoebe and Violet making encouraging noises that totally didn't make him feel any better, but now there were voices building in the background. Singing. Then lots of voices. He needed to keep looking at his hands to make sure he got the notes _roughly_ right, but he heard them. He was concentrating too hard to smile. Chorus!

_Never gonna stop, give it up, such a dirty mind_

_I always get it up, for the touch of the younger kind_

_My, my, my, aye-aye, whoa!_

_M-m-m-my Sharona_

He inserted a glissando with his right hand just for fun, winced as he accidentally smashed an E-flat. _Don't be fancy_. _You'll mess up._ The mummy costume continued to be a regrettable decision, bits of paper coming loose and tangling and actually making it very difficult to play properly. Toilet paper swept around his face. _Whoops!_ Another E-flat. The people behind him didn't care, though, too busy singing and/or drunking – _not a real word, Preston_ – to notice.

_M-m-m-my Sharona!_

* * *

"Do you think Cary will be OK?" Joe asked.

Alice nodded. "Charles'll look after him. He acts like he's angry, but he does care." She vaulted onto the balustrade, sliding down the last few steps. "Charles enjoys helping people – partly because it makes him feel important, but he does."

"That's sort of cynical."

"It's true, though. Right? We help people because we want something out of it ourselves. Like when I kept pressing you about your mom – I was interested, sure, but I got involved partly because I felt…"

"…guilty?"

"I guess. Basically, humans are terrible."

Joe flicked a piece of fluff off her shoulder. "You _are_ cynical."

"I'm realistic. Cary vomited half his stomach up, so he'll be fine. And look, Preston's fine too." She pointed. They could spot his black curls through the crush, shaking his head frantically as people shouted song requests at him. Violet leaned on the edge of the piano wearing a self-congratulatory smile.

"Still have to find Rachel, though," Joe said. "Maybe she went home?"

"She wouldn't have left without saying anything."

They wandered towards the other side of the house. Even if half the guests _were_ older and intimidating and strange, it was still entertaining to watch – like a performance. There was one guy who'd taken his shirt off who kept telling people to 'punch his stomach'; another two playing a drinking game with a funnel and pipe, beer going everywhere except their mouths. The house phone rang suddenly, making everyone jump, and Holly leapt to answer it before anyone could mess things up. Martin had apparently defeated the rest of the world at poker and moved on to table tennis. Someone shouted that the keg was running low. _When you get drunk, what happens?_ Joe wondered. _Does it transform you into who you really are? Or does it mean you're pretending extra hard?_

There was another hallway on the far side of the house, similar to the one upstairs. The first door looked like a guest bedroom. Alice pushed it open – froze for half a second – then turned and walked straight back out, her expression distinctly unimpressed.

Joe peered through the doorway. A figure was on the bed, face-down in a weird position. There was a lot of skin showing. Oh, and there was a girl underneath them. Oh, and she was moaning—

"Oh gosh," Joe said involuntarily.

The boy's head whipped around. "Fuck off! We're busy."

The sheets rustled. Legs spread. He couldn't seem to move. "…Oh gosh."

Alice seized his arm and marched him into the hall, shutting the door behind her with a businesslike kick from her boot.

"Gosh," he said again, eyes wide.

Alice frowned. "Rachel definitely isn't in there. Maybe we can try outside?"

* * *

"Charles?" Cary asked, with the tone of somebody whose brain feels really, really, _wobbly._

"Yeah?"

"Haff you ever wanned to set thingy on fire?" He hiccupped.

"What?"

"Yaknow – _thingy_."

Charles sighed. "Quiet. I goddamn hate you enough already." He peered through the living room blinds, creating a gap with his fingers. Amidst the party's awful karaoke session – now fallen silent, thank god, as Preston had a very limited repertoire of pop songs, a.k.a. two – he'd heard people yelling. He squinted, peering into the yard.

There were _dudes_ there. Four of them. They were old, hard to tell _how_ old, exactly – the leader had stringy blonde hair down to his shoulders, wearing a crusty denim jacket. His face had the leathery appearance of a roast that'd been left in the oven too long. Plus, the guy behind him had the sort of moustache that probably meant he should be in jail.

They were arguing with Holly's brother, who was blocking the path. It seemed fairly obvious what was happening. _Old creeper dudes heard there was a gnarly party. Old creeper dudes wanna come in and… creep. Old creeper dudes aren't allowed._ Moustache-guy thumped his chest. _You wanna fight?_ Holly's brother pointed back to the house, miming a phone. _I'll call the police._ Charles reckoned that wouldn't be hugely intelligent, given all the underage drinking going on, but he supposed it was an option.

He closed the blinds again, stepping back. _Not much I can do about it._

Cary had, of course, moseyed off somewhere. The living room was still crowded, full of people chatting and drinking and various other things that came under the heading of 'mingling'. Charles spotted Preston by the piano; he'd closed the piano lid and walked towards the coffee table, ripping irritably at his costume. Every step of the way it tangled more around his legs. _I don't know what he expected,_ Charles thought. _I mean, he wrapped himself in a year's supply of toilet paper._ _For a smart guy, Preston can be really dumb sometimes._

And there was Cary, next to the coffee table too, staring with intent at all the half-full plastic cups. Charles groaned inwardly. _Typical!_ He went to cut Cary off, then noticed he also had his Zippo lighter out, its flame flickering innocently in his fist.

Cary was smiling. It was his 'I'm gonna burn something!' smile.

Charles drew a breath. _Uh-oh._ "Cary! Don't you freaking dare!"

Cary spun around… but spun off-balance, arms held wide, one of which smacked into Preston's face.

"Ow!" Preston stumbled back. His hands were full of scrunched-up toilet paper and when his knees hit the coffee table he couldn't stop himself from falling. _Wham!_ His butt slammed into the shorter edge of the table and, through the magic of levers – in one beautiful half-second – the table flipped up on its two closest legs, a profusion of cups and plates of potato chips launched elegantly towards the ceiling.

_Holy crap!_ Charles wished he could've seen the debris cloud in slow motion. Stuff hit the roof – bang! – the table swung back down, then light globes shattered and instantly the room went dark.

Someone screamed. "Aaah! I'm bleeding!"

"What? Where?"

"There's – there's glass in my leg!"

Cups rolled and scattered across the carpet. The room was a mess of indistinct bodies. Stuff crunched underfoot. Charles, his brain still processing what'd happened, noticed that a single source of light remained – the tiny flame, dancing in Cary's hand.

As he watched, the flame dropped.

It hit the floor.

The substantial amount of toilet paper beneath it went up like – well – toilet paper, flames racing across the floor, a snake of fire _whooshing_ round the room. People leapt out of the way, suddenly illuminated – Preston, shocked as a ghost, Cary, dazed against the sofa, the bleeding girl leaving a trail of red droplets. Preston screeched and kicked the last of his costume to the floor.

A clown appeared in the doorway. Holly, to her credit, reacted quickly. "Get water!" she shouted. "Hurry!"

Phoebe sprinted to the kitchen. Charles saw a blanket by the window and snatched it, whipping it against the flames like he'd seen someone do in a movie once. A few flared out. Most didn't. Cary tipped some beer on the nearest bit of toilet paper, which sizzled like a steak as Holly started stamping on it with her clown boots.

Martin came running from the hallway, drawn by the commotion. He froze as he took in the scene – the fire, the mess, the bloody carpet, the churning smoke – and in the middle of it all, a sobbing clown, gazing at him with red, desperate eyes.

He screamed.

* * *

Alice stepped into the yard, ignoring the yelling from inside. Whatever the problem was, it could fix itself without her. (There was a _lot_ of yelling, though.) Holly's backyard contained a well-kept lawn, rosebushes along the perimeter, beyond them the pool fence and a small paved area. Newly-planted trees had dropped a carpet of leaves by the water, thick and crackly and the colour of fire, which was nice if you didn't have to rake them up later. She wrapped her jacket around her shoulders, shivering a little. A brisk wind was coming over the fence, making the leaves dance, creating quivering ripples on the water's surface.

_Hey! There you are_. Rachel was sitting by the pool, cross-legged, swirling her hand through the water. She was alone. The swimmers must've been abandoned it, driven off by the wind.

"Hi," Alice said.

Rachel looked up. "Hey."

"Watcha' doin'?"

"Nothing much." She shrugged. "Sitting outside. I suppose that's obvious." It was a very Rachel response; the kind of thing she said when she was busy thinking one thing while people bothered her with something else.

"Never would've guessed." Alice knelt beside her, sweeping away leaves. "Someone said you were sick, so I thought I'd look for you."

"Did they?" She seemed surprised. "I'm fine. I just – hm." She gazed across the water. "I needed a break. From people. So I came here."

Alice nodded. "I know what you mean. I get the same feeling, sometimes, when it's crowded. Water's pretty." House lights glimmered on the surface. A discarded tennis ball bobbed and dipped.

"Yes."

Alice waited for another couple of moments. She pushed her fringe to one side, tucking it behind her ear. "Had enough of a break?"

Rachel smiled a little. "Sure."

"Sorry to push you, but Charles needs someone to talk to. He's in the middle of freaking out."

"…Give me a number."

"Uh – seven. It's a seven-out-of-ten freak out."

"Seven? You aren't making this sound very attractive—" Rachel coughed, bending over. It sounded _wet_. After a couple of breaths, she clutched her chest, and spat something into her hand.

"You sure you're OK?" Alice asked. "It's cold out here."

"Yes. I'm fine." She wiped her fingers on the grass. "You're right, we should go in."

They stood up. Rachel's white dress fluttered in the night, pale and somehow barely-there, like she might float away any second. "Look – shooting star." Rachel pointed.

Alice spotted it just in time, a quick streak of white that curved above the trees. She waited for a second to see if there'd be another but the rest of the twinkling lights were still. "I used to like shooting stars," she said. "Make a wish, and all that. But now I can only think it's…" She shook her head. "What's the word?"

"Ominous?" Rachel suggested.

* * *

It turned out that the basement was the best place to hide from all the weirdness (at least once the fire was extinguished, which Holly was now furiously trying to think up excuses for). It was a plain, L-shaped room, with white walls and a steel grey carpet. Old cardboard boxes and a broken washing machine were stacked at the far end, next to a few mysterious doors which Holly assured them were 'closets'.

"Not murder dungeons?" Kim asked.

"Like, I'm 90% sure they're closets," Holly replied.

The basement was actually quite well-furnished, with a fridge, a few chairs, even a hammock hanging from the beams across the ceiling. A hint of music was still audible from above.

"We should play truth or dare," Violet said suddenly. Joe suspected she was also a little drunk. _Maybe half-way between a little and a lot._

"Uh – let's _not_ ," Phoebe replied. "It's a recipe for awkwardness."

"When did you last play?"

"Um… summer camp?"

"Exactly. Jew camp, right? Of course you didn't have fun, you need to play with the right people."

Phoebe snorted. "And we _are?_ "

Violet rolled her eyes, judging the room. "Well it's not ideal, but – _c'mon_ , let's play truth or dare. Who's playing? Everyone?"

Joe counted 'everyone' as twelve: himself, Alice, Charles, Preston, Martin, Rachel and Cary, plus Violet, Phoebe, Kim, Holly and Cameron Loveland. The other kids their age were still wandering around upstairs.

Joe had never been quite sure what to think of Violet. She'd always been one of those ultra-confident girls who _led_ things, who grew up before everyone else, the centre of attention in her group of friends. That had made her… scary? Intimidating? Unknowable, in a way.

Kim was scary too but Kim _wanted_ to be scary. She enjoyed it, as far as Joe could tell. Charles had called her something funny once – ' _a short, red-haired ball of sarcasm and anger_ ' – and she'd very nearly killed him with a look.

Phoebe was nice, though. Sorta nerdy. Wore glasses sometimes. Almost like a girl version of Preston, if Preston had been more… mainstream. And more confident. And just better, really.

Cameron was one of those people who roamed the outskirts of their friendship group – mostly because he had his own, cooler set of friends, but was still nice enough to do things like invite them to play sport at lunchtime.

"I'll sit out," Rachel said quietly.

"No you won't," Violet said, putting an arm around her shoulder. "It'll be fun. And seriously, I feel like I should get to know you better."

Rachel glanced at Charles, who shrugged helplessly.

"What about Sealy?" Kim asked, pointing at the snoring shape of Cary in the corner.

"Sealy?" Martin frowned.

"Sealy. C-lee. Because his name's Cary Lee. _God_ , I've been explaining that for years and you people still don't get it."

"I _get_ it, I just don't think it works—"

"Sealy," Alice said thoughtfully. "I like it."

"He can play too," Violet said, "we'll wake him up when it's his turn. Holly, have you got some paper? And pens? OK. So, what we do is, everyone writes down two truths and two dares on four scraps of paper – then we put them in a hat, someone spins a bottle, and whoever it lands on draws a paper at random. I know those rules are different than the usual but it's more fun this way, trust me. Holly, do you have an empty Coke bottle or something?"

Cameron removed the hat he'd been wearing as part of an Addams Family getup. "Will this work?"

"Yes, great, everyone put your dares in Cameron's hat! And please, make 'em _good_."

* * *

**DARE #1**

"Woo," Kim said. "Go Preston! You win."

Preston groaned. Violet – of course – had spun the bottle first, and the stupid thing had landed on _him._

_Do I have to?_ he thought.

_Of course I have to. Stupid probability._ The hat lay in the middle of the circle, and forty-eight scraps of paper waited inside; he closed his eyes and fished around at random. Though the dares he'd submitted had been fairly tame, he figured some of the rest would be very mean. _I can deal with mean, as long as it isn't embarrassing._ The other players watched closely.

"Give it to somebody else," Violet said. "They read it to you."

He found a messily-folded paper at the bottom, passed it to Joe opposite him, then shuffled back to his spot on the carpet. Joe unfolded it… and couldn't quite conceal the tremor that passed across his face.

_Uh-oh._

"OK," Joe said, clearing his throat. "So there are two options. One: take off everything except your underwear for three rounds."

Preston froze.

"That escalated quickly," Phoebe murmured.

"…Or two: go shirtless for the rest of the game."

It was quiet, for a moment, except for the sound of Martin trying desperately not to laugh. Preston made a mental note to re-break his leg later.

"Sorry dude," Cameron said. "I was kinda hoping that'd land on a girl."

Holly glared at him. " _Really_."

Quickly, Preston weighed the pros and cons of each choice. There were mostly cons, to be honest. _Underwear: embarrassing. Only three rounds, but who knows how long that'll be. Also, they're the blue pair with the spots which are slightly too small. Shirt: marginally less embarrassing. Longer duration, but arguably similar to going to the beach. Arguably. Possibility of getting out of this dare altogether: very low._

"So what'll it be?" Violet asked, with a distinctly predatory smile.

Preston sighed. "…Shirt. You can have my shirt."

"Wooh!" Cary catcalled, from his position on the floor. "Yeah! Burn it!"

Reluctantly, Preston pulled his t-shirt over his head. He wriggled free, holding it against his chest. He felt very pale.

Violet leaned over, grabbed it, and threw it to the other side of the room.

"Hey!"

"It's not like you'll be needing it for the next hour," she said bluntly.

"Yes, but…" He shifted on the carpet, looking down. The room was suddenly very cold. "Fine." He crossed his arms, clutching his shoulders tightly. Goosebumps prickled his skin.

"On the bright side," Alice said, "it's your turn to spin the bottle."

* * *

**TRUTH #1**

The bottle landed on Holly.

"Urgh," she grunted, horse-like. "What is it."

Preston read the paper. "Truth: which celebrity would you most like to kiss?"

Holly smiled grimly. "Assuming I'm not murdered by my parents first? Hmmm… let me think."

"Choose wisely," Kim intoned, "or forever face our judgement."

"This one's too easy," Martin said.

"Well _I'm_ kind of interested," Charles said.

"Why?" Rachel murmured.

"Just, you know… interest."

Holly pursed her lips. "Look, it's probably John Travolta."

"Bo- _ring_ ," Violet retorted.

"It's the truth, you wanted it. Also, did you _see_ Saturday Night Fever? Or Grease? That dude can _dance_."

"Yeah, but what about, like – Freddie Mercury?"

"Nah, too old. John Travolta."

The circle shrugged.

* * *

**TRUTH #2**

"Cary, wake up!" Charles slapped him in the face.

"What? Why? Where!?" He sat up, dazed. "Did someone hit me?"

"No," Charles said innocently. "But it's your turn. The bottle landed on you."

Slowly, Cary's eyes focused on the room. "Ohhhhh. Yeah. Truth or dare."

"Ready?" Holly asked.

"Shhuuu— sure." He licked his lips. "Read it."

"It's a question. Have you…" She paused dramatically. "…ever _broken_ the law?"

Cary leaned back, propping himself up on his arms. "Yesh."

"Really? How?"

"I shtole a bunch of stuff from the 7-11 once. Like, 20 chocolate bars. I shoved 'em all into my schoolbag. Never got caught," he said proudly.

"Did you feel bad afterwards?" Phoebe asked, eyes narrowed.

"Not really." He hiccupped. "The dude who owns the shop – the shopkeeper – wasshisname? – he's rich anyway. It was _good_ chocolate. I gave some to you, Joe. On your birthday."

Joe blinked. "Did you?"

"And I dunno if it's _teck-nic-ly_ breaking the law, but the time I burned my houshe down might count. Burned myshelf heaps. Almost killed my sister. She was stuck behind the door… My parents were suuuper mad. Lost lotsh of money… went to hospital. Shometimes, I wish…" he trailed off. "Oops."

There was silence as everyone absorbed this information.

"Well that got dark," Kim said brightly. "Next round?"

* * *

**DARE #2**

Cary couldn't stop himself cackling as he read the next dare. Cameron folded his arms grumpily, preparing to be disappointed at whatever came next.

"You gotta – you gotta – hahaha! _Wow_."

"Hurry _up_."

"Yeahyeahyeah, calm down. Or _cool_ down." He snorted. "Because you gotta shove twelve ice cubes down your pants – and keep 'em in your underwear – till they _melt!_ HAHA!" Cary threw the paper into the air, falling onto his side.

Cameron looked down at his crotch. "That's what it says?"

"That's what is says, dude. Read it yourshelf."

He sighed, scratching his head. "That's… not great."

It didn't take the girls long to find some ice, and Joe thought they seemed suspiciously eager. _I guess out of everyone here, Cameron is the – *girly voice* – hottest guy_. _I mean, that's just being objective. Which I suppose makes it more exciting to put ice down his pants?_

Cameron stood up, pacing back and forth, and Holly gave him a tray of ice cubes. He glanced at her uncertainly. "Have you got somewhere private?"

"Nuh-uh, you have to do it here," Preston said. "So we can make sure you aren't cheating." In his shirtless state, he seemed keen to share the embarrassment.

"Can I help put them in?" Violet asked.

"What? No!"

"Thought I'd ask. You can stand in the corner then."

Cameron walked to the corner. He looked at the ice, then at the girls, then at the ice.

"…We don't have all day," Phoebe said.

"Yeah, yeah." He cracked a few cubes from the tray, then grabbed the waistband of his briefs, turning away. Ice slid down the rear. He took a sharp breath. "Oooh, god."

"You should do the front next," Martin said conversationally.

They saw him fiddle with his shorts, ice blocks dropping into the gap. "Oh god. Ah." He winced, hopping from foot to foot. Two more cubes slipped in the other end.

"How's it going?" Cary asked. "Got some shhhhhrinkage?"

Cameron glared at him. "Shut up." Twelve ice cubes was a decent amount and he tipped the rest in at once, hissing in surprise. "Ow! Ow, this is actually bad." He turned back to them, underwear clacking, radiating a chill sharp as needles. "How long do I have to keep these in?"

"Until they melt, whenever that may be," Phoebe said solemnly. The other girls giggled behind her.

"Till they _melt_?" He swore under his breath and waddled back to the circle, shuddering and clutching his crotch.

Joe felt rather sympathetic.

* * *

**DARE #3**

The bottle landed on Alice.

"Lick Violet's feet," Cameron read, teeth chattering. "Th-th-three words."

" _Violet's_ feet?" Alice asked.

"Yep."

She rolled her eyes. "Gee, I wonder who wrote it."

"Not me," Violet said innocently. She pulled off her shoes and stretched her legs out, curling her toes towards Alice. Alice, for her part, wasn't a particularly good judge of feet – she hadn't spent much time thinking about them, to be honest – but they seemed fine. A bit small, maybe. Wrinkly toes. Very feet-y.

"I guess that's not so bad." Alice sighed. "I hope you washed them."

"They're actually pretty clean. Better my feet than…" Her eyes flicked around the circle. "…Charles'."

"What's wrong with mine?" Charles retorted.

"You seem like you'd have smelly feet."

"I _don't_."

Slowly, Alice leaned forwards. She lifted Violet's ankle. The dare hadn't specified _how_ _much_ licking was involved, so she could probably get away with being quick. She shuffled closer. Stuck out her tongue, bracing herself. The other girl waited expectantly.

Quickly, she touched her tongue to Violet's heel, then swept it to her big toe in one smooth motion. _Ugh!_ She had to stop herself from recoiling; it wasn't pleasant. The taste was salty – a little musty – with a weird, rippled texture. _Pretty much what I expected? Like licking your own hand, but worse._ The ridiculousness of the situation wasn't lost on her. _I look like a freaking dog._

Violet twitched in surprise. "That felt _weird_."

"You're telling me," Alice muttered. She wiped her lips with her sleeve, spitting onto the carpet. "Your feet aren't _that_ clean."

"Well, sorry." She lifted her other leg. "Next one."

Alice sighed, then did the same to her other foot. It didn't taste any better the second time and her tongue curled in protest. _I won't make this a habit._

Violet appeared to enjoy it, though. "Tickles," she said thoughtfully. "I don't s'pose you'd want to suck my toes?"

"No," Alice said, "find someone else. Or get a boyfriend."

* * *

**TRUTH #3**

"What's the strangest place you've peed?" Alice asked.

Joe blushed. "Umm… wow. I'll have to think for a bit." He looked down, trying to find a decent answer.

"You've peed in many strange places, then?" Kim asked.

"Tons," Charles answered for him. "That's like, Joe's defining feature – peeing everywhere."

Joe threw a shoe at him. "Rack off."

A small hill of clothes was gradually growing in the corner – Preston's shirt, several pairs of shoes, Charles' jacket, Rachel's hoody. Preston, at least, seemed to have comes to terms with being the least-dressed person in the room, though was being quieter than usual. Cameron was shifting uneasily on his butt, a damp patch slowly spreading. _Look at us, we're having SO much fun._ Joe racked his brains. _Have I peed in any strange places? It's not exactly something I keep track of._ _I could make one up…_

"Got one," he said. "Does the girls' bathroom at school count?"

Martin frowned. "It's strange that _you_ peed in there, sure."

"I was really stressed after a test once, and I totally wasn't thinking straight, and I went in the wrong door by accident. Didn't even notice until some girls came in."

"And?" Holly asked.

"And I hid in there for twenty minutes until it was empty again. I don't think anyone saw me." He smiled nervously. "Oh, and the Grand Canyon too – like, over the edge, when I was six. Not _really_ over the edge since it wasn't very steep, but that's what I was _trying_ to do. My mom was super embarrassed."

"Strange place," Phoebe murmured. "As advertised."

Joe reached for the bottle. He paused, twisting his wrist – letting the anticipation build – then spun it on the carpet. The plastic glinted, whirring fast, fast, slower, slower… pointing past Holly, then Preston, then Charles, coming to a stop on Rachel—

The bottle did a little skip – like it'd had been given an extra nudge – and moved past Rachel, settling on Phoebe's lap.

* * *

**DARE #4**

Joe took the paper from her, unfolding it. "Spin the bottle again," he read. "Whoever it lands on, you have to sit in their lap for the rest of the game."

Phoebe spun the bottle. It landed on Cameron.

"Oooh!" said five different people. Phoebe didn't seem too fussed though, or perhaps was resigned to her fate. She scratched her neck daintily. Cameron tried his best to look nonchalant but was clearly biting down on a smile.

"Feeling better?" Charles asked him.

"Sort of. Not gonna lie, this is still super uncomfortable." He shrugged. "Gotta look on the bright side, though."

"Wait." Phoebe narrowed her eyes. "You aren't… _wet_ , are you?"

"Oh yeah. Super wet." Cameron spread his hands. "Sorry. Blame whoever wrote the dare – who, by the way, I am going to get revenge on."

Phoebe stood up, grimaced, and stalked towards him; put her hands on her hips and gave him an expectant stare. Cameron crossed his legs and leaned back a little, supporting himself with his arms.

"I hope you have comfortable knees," Phoebe said.

"Honestly, that isn't something I can confirm or deny. Time to find out?"

Phoebe brushed her dress out of the way, then sat swiftly with an unimpressed look. _Too_ unimpressed, Joe thought. Cameron grunted with the sudden weight, then straightened, his chest again her back. He sniffed.

"Your hair's in my face."

"Well, deal with it." Still, she moved it to one side; shifted a little, making herself comfortable. "You _are_ wet. Pass me the bottle."

* * *

**TRUTH #4**

"Martin: if you could go on a date with anyone in the room, who would it be?"

"Huh," he said slowly. He looked around the circle at everyone in turn: Alice, Cary, Kim, then Joe, who met his gaze and for the briefest moment Joe thought he'd say—

"Holly," Martin said. He blinked, then wiped his glasses with his sleeve, as if that answer didn't have serious consequences.

"Really?" Holly asked curiously.

"Sure."

Joe noticed that Alice was smiling faintly.

Holly frowned. "We'll talk later."

* * *

**TRUTH #5**

"Hey Violet – describe the underwear you're wearing. Be specific, please."

"Oooh, okay. They're black panties. Lacy. From that clothes shop next to the record store, not that any of the guys would know. Bra's the same but with pink straps. And sorry, but you don't get to know the exact size." She stretched the waistband of her jeans slightly, revealing a hint of what was underneath; the material was indeed black and lacy. "Next question."

* * *

**DARE #5**

"Kim, this one's for you."

"Hooray."

"Your task is to play a game: lie on the floor and balance a shot glass on your forehead. The other player must crack eggs at eye level – arms fully extended – and drop them into the cup. The first team to get the whole yolk in the cup wins." Violet squinted, holding the paper up to the light. "The writing is super tiny – it says to pick random people until there's two teams of two."

"Is that allowed?" Alice asked.

"It _is_ unorthodox… but let's do it."

The fierce and uncaring bottle-god chose Charles, Preston and Cary and it was agreed, unwillingly, that Kim and Preston would lie on the floor while Charles and Cary dropped eggs. Preston's primary argument against this was that Cary was drunk and thus _clearly_ not qualified to be aiming at anything, especially foreheads, but everyone else thought this was hilarious and he was overruled eleven votes to one.

Kim lay on the carpet, staring at the ceiling. Preston lay down next to her, crossing his arms over his chest. Kim glanced aside. "This is fun."

"Exceptionally." Preston swallowed.

Holly searched the kitchen upstairs for eggs, plus a couple of shot glasses. She balanced the glasses on Kim and Preston's foreheads; Preston went crosseyed trying to focus on it.

"Everyone still alive up there?" Alice asked.

"Mostly. We only have twelve eggs, so you get six each," Holly said, dividing them between Charles and Cary. Cary giggled, running on the spot.

Charles was somewhat less excited. "Don't mess up," Kim said darkly, fixing him with a robotic stare.

"But it's not my fault— I can't— that glass is _tiny_!"

"I don't care. If you get egg on my face, tomorrow they'll find your body floating face-down in the river, with no hands, because I'll be wearing your hands as a decomposing necklace to remind myself of how terrible you are. And then I'll burn your bones to ash. Then I'll collect the ashes and burn them again. And again. And again. And your brother, and sister, and your mother and father too until nobody even remembers what you looked like."

Charles swallowed. "Sure."

"I mean it."

"You have to try and _win_ ," Preston said, desperately trying to get Cary to pay attention. "Be careful! It's not that hard – you can do it."

"Of _coursh_ I'll be careful, Math Camp." He tripped and nearly fell into a beam. "Whoo! Shooper careful."

"Oh no." Preston closed his eyes. "I'm doomed."

"Teams ready?" Violet asked, the others crowding around to watch. "Three, two, one, go!"

Charles and Cary grabbed their eggs – held them out – crack- _splat_! Charles, in principle, was at least trying to aim; Cary was doing no such thing, and his egg splattered the carpet by Preston's ear. He winced, turning away. Charles' egg was closer, but that just meant it dripped sloppily onto Kim's cheek.

He froze. "Sorry! Sorry! I'm really sorry! I—"

Kim twitched, spluttering. "You're DEAD."

Cary's next shot was way off, more a throw than a drop, hitting Preston's chest and sliding down his ribs. He went to wipe it away but was quickly silenced by Violet. "No moving! Arms by your sides!"

Charles cracked an egg onto Kim's nose, still petrified, then dropped the next yolk on her forehead, barely missing the glass. "That was close! That was really close!"

Kim spat yolk from her mouth, the rest seeping into her stringy red hair. "Mmm, give it to me," she said.

Another miss, this time her chin.

"Harder."

Another miss.

" _Harder._ "

"You're making this awkward!" Charles hissed.

"Oh really? Is it awkward that you're dropping eggs on my face?"

Charles was panicking, which made him miss even more. Cary wasn't panicking but was missing just as badly. The spatial challenge of judging the drop was apparently too much and Preston squeezed his eyes shut, accepting his fate.

"Aah!" Eye. "Aah!" Neck. "Aah! Cary, _aim_!"

In the end, it was agreed that the spectators were the winners.

* * *

**DARE #6**

Preston left to wash off the mess. Kim decided to stay and bask in her misery, egg whites slowly drying on her face. Every now and then she shot Charles another death-stare, who looked about as worried as when fleeing angry aliens.

Kim twirled the Coke bottle, which landed on Joe.

_Oh, great._

"Heh. This is a fun one," she said. "You will be tied up and blindfolded. The group may tickle you for one minute."

Joe froze. "I don't really like being tickled."

" _Fan_ -tastic."

He surrendered unwillingly; there wasn't much of a choice. _It's only a minute. It can't be that bad? Right? Question mark?_ Holly wrapped a tea towel around his head, knotting it tight. The world went black. "Do I _have_ to be tied up?"

"Yes."

"Yep."

"Yeah."

"Yes."

"Definitely."

"Where should we put him?" he heard Cameron ask.

"The beam?" Martin suggested. "Like where the hammock is?"

"That could work," Phoebe said.

"Let's try it," said Holly. "I'll find some rope or something."

The group pulled him to his feet. Someone pushed him along from behind; he guessed it was Charles. The tea towel smelled of dishwashing liquid. He tripped on the hat, which meant he was near the middle of the basement.

"Left a bit. Left a bit. Stop."

He felt someone take his wrist, tie something around it. He tried to peer through the towel but couldn't make anything out. It felt like… a shoelace? Then the other wrist. Then hands grabbed his ankle. _What are they doing?_

"See those hooks?" Cameron said. "Tie the other ends around those. His legs can reach the pillars on either side."

"Guys?" Joe asked nervously. "What are you doing?"

"Just making sure you _definitely_ can't move," Alice replied.

His left arm was yanked upwards at a 45-degree angle. The rope went taut in a slightly painful way, and he heard rustling as someone tied it in place. His right arm was stretched in the other direction – as if he was doing the YMCA dance. He tugged experimentally and couldn't get free, both wrists fixed to something on the ceiling. _Probably the hammock hooks._

"Move your legs a bit wider," Charles said.

"Umm… okay." Obediently, he shifted his feet, till they were outside his shoulders. At some point he couldn't move them any further – with his arms tied above his head, it limited how low he could go. Somebody knotted the ropes at his ankles as well, looping them around the beams to either side, until he was making an 'X'-shape with his arms and legs.

"That looks good," Violet said. "Joe, can you try and get free?"

He yanked with his arms but couldn't find much leverage – he was stretched so far that it was slightly uncomfortable, unable to twist or shift or move back and forth. His legs had the same problem. "I can't really move."

"Great."

Joe shook his head. _Not great_. He heard the others shuffle away and start whispering in the corner. He tried moving again; no result. His heart started to beat a little faster. _I literally can't do anything._ And that was… exciting? Probably the wrong word. But the expectation, the _anticipation_ of what might happen combined with his powerlessness formed a strange emotional cocktail.

"Hey," Alice said, right behind him.

He twitched reflexively, but only succeeded in hurting his wrist. "Hello?"

"They've set a timer for a minute. But they probably won't stick to it."

"OK." He twisted his neck to face her; she sounded very close. "I feel like I should reiterate that I don't like being tickled."

"Objection noted," she murmured.

Then she stuck her fingers into his armpit.

"No. That tickles." He coughed, biting his lip, trying not to giggle. Alice wormed her fingers. The itching sensation made him want to pull away but he really, really couldn't. His arms tensed. "Stop. Stopstopstop—"

Another pair of hands began digging into his ribs. He jerked backwards. "Hey!"

The person laughed (it sounded a _lot_ like Cary). The hands kept teasing, brushing, poking, and Alice was still tickling his armpit, more and more. Then someone brushed his left foot and _that_ was the worst. He gasped for breath, skin squirming. "Stop! _Please—_ "

"No friggin' way," Cary snorted.

No escape. He thrashed against the restraints. Finally he couldn't hold it in anymore and laughed, a weird, gasping hyena-like laugh, arms, stomach, feet, wriggling and shivering, no way to focus on anything else except the next wild second of feeling – not painful, but too much in too many places. Sixty seconds was starting to sound like a very long time and the blindfold _definitely_ made it worse. His arms hurt from trying to pull away, legs stretched, stomach tense. Part of his brain wondered how long it'd been.

Unexpectedly someone went for the back of his neck. The _jerk_ playing with his feet danced up and down his soles, in and out of his toes, across the top, back around the ankles. "Stop! No!" He giggled, running out of air. Hands lifted his shirt – Cary? – to get at his bare skin. That was twice as bad. Fingers touched his sides. He bucked sideways. Something else – not fingers – swirled lightly round his bellybutton in a cruel, slow spiral. Some people were being rough, not paying much attention, while others were being particularly delicate and awful. He whimpered, biting his lip. Protested to no avail. Hands were still prodding at his ribs, poking, tickling, _oh god when will it end_ he hadn't even _realised_ the backs of your knees were that sensitive. A burst of delirium. He kicked madly, curling his toes, no escape, not even an inch. There were tears in his eyes. _How long left?_

All he could do was laugh and pray for an end that never came.

* * *

**TRUTH #6**

"That was _way_ longer than a minute," Joe panted, sagging against his restraints. He squinted as Alice pulled his blindfold off, adjusting to the light.

"Slightly," Alice said.

"More like two," Rachel added.

"But you looked like you were having _so_ much fun that we didn't want to stop," Cameron said. "We were only thinking of you, Joe."

"Thanks a lot. You guys are horrible." He coughed, still trying to catch his breath. His muscles _ached_ , every single one of them, like he'd run two miles instead of being tied up in someone's basement. _Which, by the way, sounds super wrong._

"You didn't even _slightly_ enjoy it?" Holly asked.

"Nope." _Not after the first ten seconds, anyway._ "Can you untie me?"

Alice reached towards his wrist, then paused. "Hmmm." She glanced towards the others. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"We _could_ just leave him there," Martin said slowly.

Holly shrugged. "Why not? The dare said the _tickling_ was for a minute. Not the other stuff."

"True," Phoebe said. "Very true."

Joe shook his head worriedly. "Alice. Please untie me."

She leaned closer, considering it. Then she flicked his nose gently. "I think not." She turned, departing without a second glance.

"Alice?" He tugged on the ropes. "Charles? Guys?"

"Sorry, Joe," Charles called out.

They sat down in a circle again, ignoring his frantinc objections. Joe groaned. It wasn't exactly _uncomfortable_ , but it would've been nice to sit down. _Or, you know. Move._ He wasn't able to spin the bottle from his position, so Alice brought it over – grinning at his scowl – and let him nudge it with his foot.

It rolled towards Kim. The red-haired girl picked a dare from the hat, then knelt on the carpet, hands on her thighs. Phoebe, once more, took a seat on Cameron's lap. Joe waited. There wasn't much else he could do.

Holly read it out. "What is a secret you've never told anyone else?"

"A secret?" Kim clapped with mock excitement. "Oooh, okay. Um – I dated two of the Pensini twins."

Violet's brow furrowed.

Kim kept going. "I competed in the US elementary nationals for showjumping—"

"In horsery?" Martin asked.

"Yes, horsery. For ten months I helped my older cousin do inkwork for counterfeit IDs. I've never eaten a blueberry—"

" _What_?" Violet exclaimed.

"They're doll eyes, think about it. I can't do a cartwheel. An owl tried to kill me at Bible camp—"

Charles blinked. "Say again?"

"Big bastard, sluiced right through the night air, silent as crap – _fshhhhh_." She mimed its path. "There's still scars on my—"

"No, not that. What kind of camp did you say?"

"Bible camp. See, my real problem is I was wearing a headband with a cute little mouse on it—"

"Kim, are you _religious_?"

"No! I consider myself more generally spiritual," she said, deadpan. "Is that enough secrets for you?"

* * *

**DARE #7**

The bottle, for the first time in the game, picked Charles.

Kim scanned the paper. "Seven minutes in heaven with whoever the bottle lands on," she said. "Easy. Heaven – finger quotes – can be the creepy basement closet over there. Which Holly is 90% sure is not a murder dungeon."

"I've never understood this concept," Preston said. "What're you supposed to do in a closet?"

Charles cleared his throat. "Talk, hold hands, kiss… you know, private stuff."

"But why a closet? If I'm going to talk to someone, I'm just as likely to do it outside. And everyone _knows_ you're in there. It's not private at all."

"That's why it's exciting," Alice said. "The idea is to be chosen to go in with somebody you like – _like_ like. The game sets up a situation you want to be in."

"It's very unlikely you'll match with one specific person. Seems inefficient."

"Stop ruining it." Charles grabbed the bottle. He looked aside for the briefest of moments, taking a breath. Joe wondered whether – if you practiced enough – you could get a bottle to stop consistently at a certain angle. It'd depend on the surface, and the bottle obviously, but maybe… _I bet that's a plan Charles has thought of._ There was a 50% chance it'd land on a girl. A 25% chance it'd land on a girl Charles liked. An 8% chance it'd land on a girl he _liked_. Eight percent wasn't much.

The bottle spun. It whipped round the circle a few times, then slowed, turning past Violet, Cary, the Cameron-Phoebe sandwich, Joe hanging from the beam, Preston, inching along, preparing to halt at Alice… inevitably kept spinning for _juuuust_ a little longer, until it stopped at Rachel's knees.

Rachel stared at it. Then at Charles.

"Oooh," Violet said. "Interesting."

Cary whooped loudly. "Go Charles!"

Charles blushed. He stood, making a big show of re-arranging his hair, like nothing exciting was going to happen, no sir nothing at all.

"You've got seven minutes," Violet said. "Have fun. Try not to make any weird noises."

Charles led the way, steadfastly ignoring them. Rachel stretched, then followed Charles into the closet.

The door clicked shut behind them.

* * *

**DARE #8**

Joe wondered if anything would happen. Probably not; Rachel didn't seem like the type, and Charles would freak the heck out if anything did. _Still, he got what he wanted. That's cool, haha._ Every few moments, someone would glance stealthily at the closet door – it was one of those doors made of thin wooden slats – as if they'd suddenly developed X-ray vision.

_I wish I wasn't tied up._

The next dare was for Alice. Since Charles was otherwise occupied, she got to read it herself: "Switch all your clothes with Sealy." She wrinkled her nose. "Sealy?"

"That's one of mine," Kim said. "Sealy. C-Lee. Cary Lee. We've been over this."

"Yeah, I know who it is. But why Cary?"

"'Cause he's the smallest one, and I thought it'd be funny. CARY!"

"AAH!" Cary spluttered, bursting into wakefulness. Every few minutes he fell into another doze; the alcohol was taking a while to wear off.

"I'm switching clothes with you," Alice said flatly.

"For a dare?" Cary asked.

" _Obviously_ for a dare. It's not something I'd do normally."

"But you might really love these sweet threads." The remainder of his shark costume was a long-sleeved top and cargo pants, both pale grey. Alice, for her part, was wearing a simple cream-coloured dress. Cary belched loudly.

"I'm not sure who's getting the worse end of the deal," Cameron murmured.

"I guess we'll find out," Phoebe replied.

Holly pointed around the corner of the L-shaped basement. "You can get changed around there. There's boxes 'n' stuff to hide behind; you'll figure it out."

"Okay." Alice sighed. "But I just wanna make it clear – we _aren't_ switching underwear."

Cary almost looked disappointed. "Can we?"

"Not happening."

They disappeared around the corner.

The rest of the group waited curiously, imagining what might be happening out of sight, though Cary's participation had made it decidedly unerotic. There were subtle rustlings, followed by an elbow hitting the wall.

"Ow," Cary hissed.

"Spin round," Alice whispered. "Don't look."

More rustling, shuffling feet. Cary sneezed.

"Pass it here," Alice said.

"No! You first."

"Turn _around_!"

Somebody was clearly struggling with a shirt. Cary giggled as he tried to figure out the dress. "How do you _wear_ this stuff?"

"Seriously? Put your arms through the holes, it's not that difficult." Alice groaned. " _Don't_ rip it. Cary, give it – Cary, no! NO!"

A box fell over _. Thump!_ "We're doing it," Cary ordered, "or I'll chuck 'em out the window!" There was the sound of a struggle, then Alice's shoes sailed from behind the corner, smacking into the far wall. A pair of socks followed.

Silence.

"…Fine," Alice said.

"Heh."

Thirty seconds later, they emerged. Cary's clothes were _way_ too small for Alice – the pants were more like three-quarter jeans, the shirt _basically_ a crop top (which wasn't too strange, she supposed). Something ripped. She winced. Cary, on the other hand, was positively swimming in Alice's dress, the fabric billowing gaily round his legs. He jumped and attempted a twirl, almost falling over.

"Oh wow," Phoebe said.

"Looks good," Preston murmured. "You should dress as a girl more often."

Martin just laughed, doubling over. "Hahahahaha! HAHAHA!"

Cary skipped across the room Mary-Poppins-style, arms swinging. "Guys. Guys, it's totally not that bad!"

Alice frowned grumpily, sitting in front of Joe. She wriggled, trying to get comfortable but the clothes were far too tight, hugging her form. Her face momentarily reached Kim-levels of scariness. Martin kept laughing. He was running out of air.

"Hey Alice," Joe said.

"…What?"

"So there's this thing called karma, which I think you might be interested in—"

" _Save it_."

Cary came to a stop, puffing. He swished the dress. "Seriously, it's like _airy_ , and loose… if it was shorter it'd be ace! The other stuff's kind of tight, though."

"What other stuff?" Martin asked.

* * *

**DARE #9**

The next dare went to Holly: "Act like a dog for the next three rounds."

She blushed. "That's kinda boring."

"Boring or not, you gotta do it," Cameron said.

Holly sighed. Slowly, she reared up on her knees – arms curled in front of her like paws – and stuck her tongue out, panting quietly.

It was pretty boring.

* * *

**HEAVEN**

Charles sat cross-legged on the floor of the closet, picking at the carpet with his fingers. Rachel sat by his side, at a slight angle. Light shone through the slats in the door, casting faint lines across his knees, and he could hear the group laughing at something too muffled to make out. He wiped a beat of sweat from his ear. _Oh man. I hope I don't smell bad._

Seven minutes in heaven so far seemed vastly overrated. Three or four minutes must've gone by already and all he'd managed was a few sentences of crappy small talk. Rachel hadn't contributed much either, just sitting, waiting, occasionally throwing him a smile. _Is she expecting me to do something? Does she_ want _me to? How do I_ know?! Being forced into a claustrophobic space was basically just awkward, unless you were a full-blown Romeo – like Joe now was, apparently. _How is he better at this than me? How?_

Then his breath caught in his throat. A shape was rising into the air – a feather duster. For a second he thought he was going crazy. The duster rose in the gloom, spinning, stretching, slowly twisting like the tendrils of an octopus, oddly beautiful. He watched, mouth open. Rachel concentrated, reaching out with one hand, and gently nudged it towards him.

The feather duster wobbled, floating in zero gravity. He went to touch it—

Then Rachel arched forwards, clutching her stomach, and let out a great, hacking cough. The duster fell to the floor.

Charles put a hand on her shoulder. "What happened? Are you okay?"

She waved him away. "Fine – cough! – I'm fine. Eugh."

"You sure?"

"Yes." She took a few ragged breaths, then straightened. Closed her eyes. "Doing that for fun never feels 'proper'… with great power comes great responsibility." Then she winked, and her eye sparkled like a lighthouse.

"What's it like being pretty?" he asked. He wasn't even sure where the question had come from. _Somewhere inside my stupid, stupid brain. Argh!_

"I – I wouldn't know." Her lips formed a small smile.

"What's it like being you, then?"

Rachel blushed. "This is the only way I've ever looked. I'm not—"

"I think people treat you nicer when you're pretty."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because…" _Because sometimes, I have to try really hard to get people to be nice to me. I had to try for freaking_ years _to become 'funny Charles' instead of 'fat Charles.'_ "Personal experience. You're totally pretty, though. And I'm – ugh." He grimaced. "Can we just forget the last thirty seconds?"

"If you like."

Charles forced himself to smile. His mouth curled into the right shape so easily – happy, even when he didn't feel like being happy, was the way people liked him most. _Well-trained. Funny Charles._

"I'm glad you don't think I'm a freak," Rachel added.

"What? Of course not. I mean, all of us are freaks, _total_ freaks – you just get cool special powers, too. I don't understand how people could think that's a _bad_ thing."

"A lot have. A few do. But… every time I look at you, you look like you're having a pretty good time. You're always happy. Laughing. Smiling. Ever since I met you."

"Oh, sure. That's just because I watch movies in my head." He grinned. "One-track mind."

"Whatever the reason, it means… I like being around you," Rachel said. There was a small pause between each word, as if she was thinking carefully about what she said. A stripe of light from the basement fell across her face, outlining a cheekbone, a frown, a wave of hair.

Charles gulped. "Really?"

"Can you promise me something?"

"Sure."

"Promise me you won't leave."

"Yeah, I'll stick around. Promise. You won't be able to get rid of me. Seriously, you'll get bored of me in no time."

_Probably shouldn't have added that last bit._ But Rachel laid her hand on the carpet between them, not really looking at it. After a moment, he took it, fingers resting lightly atop hers. _Oh god, I'm so sweaty._ It didn't feel like much; at the same time, it felt like a _lot_.

"You have to promise me something too," Charles said. "Promise you'll come to my birthday party."

"…Okay. Why?"

"Because if you do that, you'll still be around in six months." He grinned. "That's a good start, right?"

* * *

**DARE #10**

Martin was the ever-so-lucky recipient of the next challenge.

"Kiss (French) whoever the bottle lands on for thirty seconds," Holly read.

Martin looked shocked. "Wait. Does that mean I have to… kiss you?"

"No, dummy. It means you've gotta spin the bottle again to pick someone else. Sorry to disappoint." She shrugged, genuinely looking sorry, then went back to pretending to be a dog.

"Oh, man, that is a _good_ dare," Cameron said.

"Classic," Violet agreed. "Props to whoever wrote it." She winked.

Alice rolled her eyes. "Of course it was you. Still, I'm surprised that's the first kiss that's come up."

" _Maybe_ first." Joe stared pointedly at the closet. "Is their seven minutes up yet?"

"Why don't you check your watch? Oh. You can't."

Joe sighed. The tied-up thing was getting a little old.

Cary leaned forwards. "Spin it! Hurry up and spin it!"

Martin grabbed the Coke bottle and, shaking his head, gave it a twirl. For a moment, it looked like it'd go full circle and stop at Martin again – Joe wondered how that would work – but it wobbled a spot further to point at the person next to him.

Which was Preston.

"Umm…" Preston said.

Martin reached for the bottle. "Let's try again—"

Violet grabbed his wrist, quick as lightning. "Oh no you don't."

"But…" He glanced between Preston and Violet. "I can't kiss a _guy_ , that's not the point."

"Nope! You gotta kiss whoever it lands on. Them's the rules."

"I _agree_ ," Cary said, giggling. "They're the _rules_ , Martin."

Martin went pale. "I don't really… want to?"

"Too bad!"

"I would like to announce I fully support this turn of events," Kim said, flicking an eggshell from her hair. All of a sudden, she looked _interested._

So did Phoebe. "It's only a dare Martin, no one's going to hold it against you." She leaned forwards, making Cameron's knees crack.

"Ow!"

"Sorry. It's just that your crotch is still soaked."

Cary snorted.

"I'm unresolved as to how I feel about this," Preston murmured to himself.

Joe was the only one who heard him. "Um, guys? Maybe we shouldn't force—"

"It IS within the rules," Alice said.

Martin pulled away, tugging free of Violet's grip. "This is _weird_. I don't want to." He hunched his shoulders. "Can I pick another dare?"

"Not a chance!" Violet retorted.

"My recommendation," Cameron added, "is to hurry up and get it over with."

Martin surveyed the room anxiously, hoping for an escape. The answering stares were wholly unsympathetic – even Joe was kinda over it. _I mean, if I have to stay tied up for another hour, then I guess Martin can kiss a dude. Even if that dude is Preston._

Martin groaned. "I hate this." He blushed, glanced at Preston uneasily. "Sorry dude."

"Oh, uh – that's okay. Is it?" Preston fiddled with his hands, turning them over in his lap. "I guess it's okay."

"Get on with it, then," Violet said. "Thirty seconds. Go."

The two boys sat, frozen, unwilling to make the first move.

"You ever wish you had a camera to just so can preserve a moment forever?" Kim asked. "Those life-changing, golden moments?"

"CHARLES! CAMERA!" Cary screeched.

There was no reply.

Slowly, Martin turned to Preston. He pushed himself a little closer, cross-legged, shuffling on his backside. Preston turned to face him and suddenly wished, for the twentieth time, that he wasn't half naked. He crossed his arms over his chest. His skin suddenly felt hot, prickly. Martin wriggled forwards – looking at the walls, the floor, anywhere but an actual person – until their knees were almost touching.

Martin looked at the others. "Happy?"

"Not yet," Violet murmured. "And _don't_ act like you wouldn't make us girls do the same."

Preston opened his mouth to disagree, then closed it. No point. He swallowed. He made himself look at Martin, just to check what he was thinking but could only manage half a second. Eye contact wasn't very comfortable. The strange thing was, they'd sat next to each other this close plenty of times and he'd never felt _this_ nervous about it… never felt so hyper-aware of each tiny little uncomfortable thing.

He felt Martin's brown-streaked eyes dart across his face. "How should we – how should we do this?" Martin asked.

_I honestly don't know._ If Martin was to be believed he'd actually kissed a girl before; Martin had _experience._ The only person Preston had kissed was his mom and he'd stopped doing _that_ three years ago. Oh, and the bathroom mirror that one time. _We have to lean forwards, don't we? That's geometry._

Preston leaned forwards a little, bending at the waist. He pouted his lips. They felt very dry.

_This is strange_ , he thought.

_Obviously. I have to kiss arguably my best friend, and in all our time growing up together, this didn't register as something to prepare for. How deleterious._

Martin leaned forwards too.

It was basically a mutual agreement to get away with as little as possible. They inched closer, narrowing the gap, until their lips… touched. There weren't any surprising fireworks; no rush of blood to Preston's head. Just a vague sensation of skin touching skin, trying not to think too much about how smooth and wet it felt. The _more_ awkward thing was how their noses mashed together. _Big spike of cartilage on your face – makes sense it'd get in the way._ He could feel it on his cheek whenever Martin breathed out and his eyes were _extremely_ close, which was a problem, because it meant Preston couldn't actually look away and instead had to stare directly into Martin's rather wide pupils—

"Stop!" Violet interrupted. "Come _on_ , that's not what the dare said."

They broke apart quickly. Martin wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "What?"

"The dare clearly says French kiss."

Preston froze.

Martin stared at her. "You CAN'T be serious."

"I'm serious. We're all serious." Violet looked round the circle and was rewarded with assorted nods. "You gotta do it for _real_. None of us half-assed our tasks."

"None of you had to kiss a—"

"Do it Martin," Cary whispered evilly. "Do it."

Phoebe smiled. "Mmm."

Preston ignored the rest of the argument. It was evident that the kiss was going to happen; the girls, for whatever reason, had a vested interest, while the only person who looked unsure was Joe and _he_ certainly wasn't in a position to stop things. Even Alice seemed intrigued by the idea. She could be oddly… cruel, sometimes. Maybe 'callous' was a better word, in the sense that she'd let crazy things happen just because she was interested in seeing the consequences. _I am very,_ VERY _unresolved as to whether I want Martin's tongue in my mouth. Or anyone's tongue._

He realised he'd drifted off. Martin was looking at him with a glum expression, face red as a tomato.

"I hope you aren't incubating any diseases," Preston said.

Martin raised an eyebrow – then almost smiled. _Almost_. "Dude, I'm fine as long as you don't throw up on me."

"Huh. I _did_ say that earlier, didn't I."

"Yeah. Ready?"

Preston nodded, barely. Martin cleared his throat and leaned forwards, mouth slightly open. Preston did the same. He'd been expecting to feel a little bored about going through the whole process again, but instead, he was… hm.

Their lips touched. At first, it was the same as before, but then he felt Martin's lips open and kind of move round his own – something soft and rounded brushing against his teeth – which for a second reminded him of a _worm_ but then he realised what it was. Almost unconsciously, he tilted his head, his own tongue clamped to the inside of his cheek. _Peculiar. Odd. Anomalous._

He shut his eyes. It seemed the sensible thing to do. He didn't know where to put his arms so they stayed clumsily by his sides. Without sight, his other senses immediately exploded to the forefront – hearing, touch, smell, taste— _don't think about taste._ The skin on his ribs. The hint of someone else's air. The blush in his cheeks. All very strange.

"Man, I can't believe they're doing it!" Cary hissed.

"Is this creepy or awesome? I can't tell," Cameron said.

"Awesome," Kim murmured emotionlessly.

Martin's tongue was still there. Lips still pressed together. Goosebumps on his shoulders, for whatever reason. Martin moved slightly – leaning together like they were wasn't easy – and Preston followed. He shifted his tongue, but there wasn't an awful lot of room and suddenly it _slipped_ forwards into – oh gosh.

Martin twitched in surprise.

Contact. Too much contact! Preston curled his tongue back, retreating, but couldn't avoid touching Martin at the same time. He drew a breath—

"Umm… am I interrupting something?" a new voice said.

They whirled around. Preston and Martin separated with a jolt.

Dan Anderson was standing on the stairs. He absorbed the scene with a 'what-the-hell-did-I-miss?' expression – Cary in a dress, Alice _not_ in a dress, Phoebe in Cameron's lap, Joe tied to a beam, Holly crawling around on all fours, Kim covered in a layer of dried egg, the recently-broken and fairly intense kiss.

"Oh, hi Dan. I was looking for you," Violet said. "We're playing truth or dare. I thought you'd wanna join."

"Look, I appreciate the thought, but… kinda glad I missed it." He leapt down the last couple of steps. "Who made up the dares?"

"Everyone wrote some. They're in the hat."

"Cool. Cool cool cool."

Preston took a moment to gather his thoughts. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to flush out the weird feeling. When he stole a glance at Martin, the other boy was staring off to the side.

Dan walked to the hat and drew a dare at random. "Everybody jump in the pool," he announced. "That's what this one says."

"…Huh. Should we?" Holly asked speculatively. "I think this game's pretty much over."

"Shush, dog girl," Kim retorted.

"Swimming this late probably isn't a great idea," Alice said. "Rachel? Charles? You can come out now."

Everyone glanced at the closet. No answer.

"I'll get 'em out," Cary said. "Whether they're ready or not."

The others stood up, stretching their legs. Joe shifted his feet. "Can you guys take me down now? Guys? Guys?"

"Maybe a swim would be nice," Phoebe murmured.

"It's a heated pool, so it'll be warm," Holly replied.

"Holly! Bad dog."

"Guys? Can you untie me?"

"Charles, you'd better not be doing anything weird 'cause I am opening this door _right now_."

"Guys? Untie me?… Please?"

"I was just thinking…" Martin began.

Preston glanced at him, half-way through retrieving his shirt. "What was that?"

Martin dug at the carpet with his foot, leaning against the wall. He looked down. "I was thinking… that wasn't actually that bad. I mean… all things considered."

Preston paused. He swallowed, pulling the shirt over his head. "No, it wasn't."

* * *

_One last night,_ Joe thought. _One_ weird _night. I guess it lived up to expectations?_ He was sitting next to Alice on the edge of the pool, legs in the water. Holly lay on an inflatable chair, floating serenely, staring at the night sky. Cameron swam laps beside her (or underneath her), occasionally splashing whoever came near. Charles, in his own very pissed-off way, had spirited Cary inside to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. _Or stupid-er._

"Let's never do that again," Alice murmured.

"Haha." Joe chuckled. "I totally agree."

"I'm still trying to figure out if any of this was fun."

"I don't know… it was kinda fun, I guess. Parts of it." He rubbed his wrists, where there were still red marks. "Exciting? Interesting. Disturbing."

"Sure." She touched the water and cupped some in her hand; looked at it, then let it fall through her fingers. "I get the strangest feeling we might never see this place again."

"Why?"

"I… just one of those stranger things. Like we're running out of time. Like there's a stopwatch, somewhere, counting down, and soon it has to reach zero."

"Yeah." Joe wondered about that. In some ways, he was surprised it hadn't reached zero already. _All we have to do is survive until Cooper's friends get here. And hope the creepy tentacle guys don't finish us off first. But that's tomorrow's problem._

_One last night._

"Tomorrow," Alice agreed. "We can think about it tomorrow."

She laid her head on his shoulder, yawning tiredly, and together they watched the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The party sequence was interesting to edit, and I spent quite a bit of time re-ordering and rewriting things to try and create something interesting. For example, originally it was Martin that got drunk, rather than Cary, and Charles wandering around the party rather than Joe and Alice, but in terms of what's most entertaining for the characters I think these choices work better. The truth or dare game was another idea I originally had a few years ago, and making it happen in a reasonably fun, natural way was challenging – it's hard to know how far to go, and also required introducing a new squad of minor characters (some of whom have shown up before, admittedly).
> 
> Also, don't read too much into the Preston/Martin thing… unless you want to. The problem with my 'throw literally every idea against the wall and see what sticks' approach is that I don't know if a given plot is a one-off or if it'll develop into something more. Obviously, it depends on my interests as well as yours, reader. YES YOU.
> 
> Basically this was a weird chapter to write and ended up having less of a 'point' than I imagined, but I hope it's still entertaining!
> 
> Next chapter: we're off to school camp… where nothing will go wrong. NOTHING AT ALL. It is in NO WAY a convenient trick to get everybody out of Lillian and into a totally awful and unfamiliar situation.
> 
> Credit to: Terminator 2 for the opening scene. The Expanse for Cooper's dream. Black Swan Green for the disco, and being wonderful and atmospheric and an endless font of 70's/80's song names. Freaks and Geeks for the party. Scott Pilgrim for Kim. My childhood for truth or dare.


	35. Departure

"Dusting is a good example of the futility of trying to put things right. As soon as you dust, the fact of your next dusting has already been established."

— George Carlin

* * *

With a diesel-fuelled purr, the train pulled away from the station, its pale green highlights glinting in the sunshine. Even now, in early Spring, the Australian heat pulsed like a jackhammer, casting the coastal city of Perth in an almost oppressive brilliance. The rail line led inland from the docks to the city centre, the waiting passengers trying to make the most of a blustery sea breeze.

In the last carriage, the air conditioners struggled valiantly to keep up. It made Ron Marshall think of bailing water out of the Titanic – 'A' for effort, but ultimately futile. He wiped his brow, glancing at the vent above his seat. The fans whined. _Definitely_ not beard weather. Ron liked the scruffy beard he was growing, which made him look more rugged and less of a baby, but beards were for countries like Canada where there was actual snow for half the year.

"Bloody warm today," he muttered. Then chuckled. Complaining about it was even more pointless (even if it made you feel slightly better).

Beside him, Calvin kicked the air restlessly, his legs not quite long enough to reach the floor. His blonde hair stood up in all directions, stubbornly resisting any attempts to stick it down. The boy looked up. "Dad? Why does the sky turn red as the sun sets?"

Ron thought for a moment. "Well, that's all the oxygen in the atmosphere catching fire."

"Where does the sun go at night, then?"

"The sun sets in the west. In Egypt actually, near the pyramids."

"Oh…"

"That's why the pyramids are so yellow."

"Don't the people get burned?" Calvin asked.

Ron shook his head. "Nah, the sun goes out, see. That's why it's dark at night."

"Wouldn't the sun crush the whole country when it lands?"

"Haha, 'course not." He fished around in his pocket for a fifty-cent piece, then held it up against the window, right where the sun was now. "See, the sun's just the size of a coin. Tiny."

Calvin scratched his chin doubtfully. "I thought that the sun was really big."

"You can't believe everything you read, can you?"

"Hmm. So how does the sun rise in the east if it lands in Egypt every night?"

Ron glanced at the woman across the aisle, who was giving him a distrustful stare. He grinned, and ruffled Calvin's hair. "Dunno. I'll have to look that one up."

The sun disappeared behind some buildings, then reappeared, shops and trees and churches spooling past like an endless roll of film. Most other passengers simply waited, gazing at the ground or the roof or each other with the usual patient indifference. One was reading a dog-eared copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring,_ which Ron had begun reading to Calvin before bed every night. It was, maybe, a bit advanced – and some of the descriptive passages waffled on for-EVER – but it got the kid to sleep, and that was the main point.

Suddenly, they entered a tunnel, the carriage briefly going dark. There was a muffled _thunk_ as something hit the roof. The train shivered… then, _whoosh_ , out into the sunlight. Ron rearranged the shopping bags by his feet.

"Dad? Why did they build the Great Wall of China?"

He paused, folding his arms. "That was during the time of Emperor Nasi Goreng. And, uh, it was to keep the rabbits out. Too many rabbits, in China."

The answer appeared satisfactory. Wheels screeched as the train started to slow, approaching Fremantle Station and passengers stood, preparing to disembark. The worlds inside and outside began to synchronise, red-brick platform meeting train, until finally they snapped together when the doors opened. A blast of hot air entered.

Then soldiers walked into the carriage.

Ron gawped in surprise. These weren't half-arsed soldiers, either – the real deal, in combat fatigues, holding bloody automatic rifles. Half a dozen marched swiftly through the doors, fanning out along the aisle. Nobody moved.

One of the soldiers addressed him. "Seen any animals?" he asked gruffly.

"Uh – nah. Just humans today." Ron swallowed.

"Right." The man turned to his squadmates. "We're good for car six – go and check five. Everybody else! Stay where you are!"

Ron glanced at Calvin, then at the other passengers, who were all thoroughly confused. _'Seen any animals?' How dangerous does an animal need to be to warrant this response?_ The soldiers advanced towards the next carriage, moving quickly, on edge. Clearly expecting something. They were Australian Army, probably from the nearby base at Garden Island. The train platform outside was utterly deserted. Although the soldiers were ignoring the passengers, he felt Calvin grab his hand.

"Don't worry, mate," he murmured. "We'll be fine."

With a sharp beep, the carriage doors closed, and he felt a hint of acceleration. The closest soldier barked into his radio. "Why's the train moving?! We need it locked DOWN!"

There was a scrambled reply. _"…another incident – chrrk – Joondalup line_ …"

"Joondalup? That's the second team. Any word from Sydney?—"

BANG! A gun fired, unbelievably loud in the enclosed space. Calvin screamed.

_Crack! Crac-crac-crack!_ More shots, from a couple of carriages away. Ron shoved Calvin behind him (unhurt, but surprised). It was hard to see past the soldiers but the ones in front of them were definitely firing at _something_ , sharp yellow muzzle flashes making the world flicker. BANG! The sound faded to a tinny echo. Calvin had his hands over his ears and Ron pushed him towards the window, out of the potential line of fire. He felt lightheaded, swimmy. What was going _on?_ Another rifle joined in, the soldier kneeling and taking aim at—

The train suddenly _jolted_ to the left, rocking from side to side. Metal crunched. The woman beside them stumbled.

"—must've jumped on at the tunnel!" a soldier shouted. "It's on the roof! The ROOF!"

BANG!

A window burst inward, glass scattering, and a black mass flooded into the next carriage. It looked like a _tentacle_ , but thicker, faster, writhing above the soldiers' heads. People screamed. _There must be people in there_ , Ron thought. _Of course there's people in there._ The train jolted again, this time forwards as the brakes went on lock. Wheels screeched. He still couldn't see much other than the thrashing black blur, like a tree in a tornado, bullets sparking off the ceiling. _Crac-crac-crack! Whump!_ Shopping bags went flying.

He grabbed Calvin's arms and picked him up, throwing the boy over his shoulder. "Let's go," he grunted, running towards the rear. "We're getting off this train, otherwise your mum'll fuckin' kill me herself." The soldiers reloaded.

And then the train derailed.

* * *

On the other side of the world, Joe stared at the ceiling, willing himself to sleep. The ceiling stared back, chilly, blank. _Trying_ to fall asleep always made it harder and no matter where he put his head, he couldn't find a comfortable spot. The radio chattered softly in the background. Sometimes, when he left it on, he found it easier to drift off.

Left side.

Right side.

On his back.

Nope. Pinpricks of light danced behind his eyelids, and he felt frustratingly, awfully _awake._ Joe groaned, then grabbed his pillow. Tossed it half-heartedly across the room, where it flopped into the cupboard. Curling up just made the blankets feel _itchy_ , and it was far too cold to throw them off completely. He settled for squeezing his eyes shut. _Better not look at the clock. You won't like what it says._

Still, he must've drifted off at some point, because some indeterminate time later, he found himself walking along a corridor.

It was, very clearly, a Death Star corridor – all grey metal rectangles and polished floors, with that weird white lighting that looked like strips of Morse code. And when he turned the corner, Alice was there. She was wearing a flowing white robe, and her hair was pinned in two circular braids on either side of her head.

"Hi." Joe waved.

"Sure. Hi." Alice pointed at her head. "What's with the hair?"

"Oh… Man, you _really_ need to watch Star Wars."

"Ugh, Star Wars? It's _always_ Star Wars. What's so great about Star Wars?" She saw him open his mouth and raised a finger. "Don't say anything. This hair is _bad._ Anyway, what the heck am I doing in this weird dream of yours?"

"Dream?" Joe paused. "I can't sleep."

"You're sleeping now, aren't you?"

"I… huh." He had the strangest sense being in two places at once. "You're right, this IS a weird dream."

"I bet it's a result of that weird telepathy stuff we've been doing. I mean, it's bound to have side effects. Anyway, I'm pretty tired, so… bye?" Alice shrugged, and started walking away. The robe flowed around her feet.

"Hey, wait. I'm tired too, but— Alice? Can we talk?"

Abruptly, he was somewhere else. A hillside. No – on the side of a crater, a vast bowl of dust and dirt, its lip a hundred metres above. Every tree within it had been felled, scattered, forming undulating stacks of debris. At its very centre was a conical black tower – impossibly smooth, impossibly sharp, piercing the heavens. In the distance, it pulsed with a cavernous red glow.

Joe took a step down the crater's wall. Dust crumbled under his shoes. He realised that he'd been there before. _I've seen this…_ All of a sudden, a flock of strange, insectoid vehicles passed overhead, trailed by a Doppler-shifting whine. When he followed them, he found himself staring into the eyes of a girl.

Not Alice. Someone he didn't know. She had brown hair and a rounded sort of face, with slightly tanned skin. About his height. For some reason, she was shouting. "You have to break the lock! Or find the key! But trust me, the key's real hard to find, so you're better off going for the lock! Do the lock thing!"

"…What?" he managed.

"The lock, Joseph! You'd better bloody break it!" Her voice was very loud. "The LOCK—"

He woke up.

For a moment, he didn't know where he was, but the all-too-familiar ceiling of his bedroom soon reminded him. He turned over, glancing at his alarm clock.

It was 3AM. School camp was tomorrow.

He sighed.

* * *

From one of the hilltops overlooking Lillian, Lieutenant Forman watched the sunrise. He stretched his hand towards the sky, and let its soft amber glow pour through his fingers and onto his upturned face. The sun itself had barely risen over the hills and the town possessed the subdued quiet of dawn. Only the garbage trucks and early morning steel workers hurried through the otherwise deserted streets, every one of them too busy and focused to savour the radiant persimmon sky.

Or perhaps there were people looking up, like him. From this distance, it was hard to tell.

_We're all the same under that big ball of flame_ , Forman thought. _Compared to that, we're insignificant._ But nevertheless, sunrise brought with it… expectations. Promises. Half-told stories of events still to come. The light, in a way, tethered the past to the future, drawing them all onwards to _finish_ those stories.

Oh yes. Things were going to happen, all right. Today was the day. This was the sunrise.

* * *

Charles reached over and switched off his alarm. His next move should've been to jump out of bed. It wasn't. It's a mistake to think you'll have another few minutes gently snoozing after your alarm goes off, especially when you've got something important to do.

The next time he opened his eyes it took exactly three-point-five second before panic set in. A quick glance at the clock confirmed his worst fears.

"Ahhh, you idiot!" he muttered – quite loudly, considering that the words only had to reach his own ears. All thoughts of sleep were swept away by a tide of adrenaline. He'd be in big trouble if he missed the bus. _Big trouble._

Charles grabbed a canvas bag and started chucking clothes into it – underwear, socks, some long-sleeved shirts, cargo pants, a jacket, raincoat – mashed together into an indiscriminate pile. Then his sleeping bag, rolled up tight. "Should've packed last night," he moaned. "Should've packed last night. Should've packed last night."

He ran to the bathroom to grab some toiletries. Toothbrush, tooth _paste_ , comb, deodorant, soap, insect repellent, some headache tablets just in case. He clutched it all in his arms and skidded back to the bedroom. What else did he need to bring? There was a list somewhere… he rummaged around under his bed, scattering assorted magazines, books, old photos, until he found the crumpled sheet of paper his teacher had given him two weeks ago. He scanned it. _Clothes… sleeping bag… pen and paper… pillow!_ He snatched up his pillow and managed to body-slam it into the bag. _Water bottle, towel… I should bring my camera too—_

"Charles!" His mom knocked on the door, then opened it a millisecond later. "Are you ready to go? We'll be late!"

"Uh…" He turned around, half-way through packing his towel. "No?"

Her eyes bulged. "You aren't even— you should've packed last night!"

"I know!"

"Charles, I told you to pack last night."

"I _KNOW!_ "

She marched into his room to assess the damage, in full irritation mode. "Remember to pack all your warm clothes. You'll be out in the woods, so it's going to be _chilly_."

"I know."

"And remember to bring a water bottle. You forgot last time."

"Got it." He wiggled it to show her, then ran to his desk to find some pens.

"And don't forget to change out of your pyjamas."

Charles froze, looking down. "…Right."

"Well, thank god _I'm_ awake." Mrs Kaznyk rolled her eyes. "Not a single intelligent person in this house—"

"Mom, I'm _on it!_ " he retorted. "Now can you PLEASE get out so I can get changed!"

"Fine, but I'm coming back in three minutes." She made to leave before something on the carpet caught her eye. She stared curiously. Bent down, picked it up. "Charles, what are these?" His mom was holding a collection of photographs in her hand. She flipped through them, frowning. No, not photographs – film stills. From the summer. The train crash, the attack on the town, when they'd filmed the alien with his camera—

"Don't touch those!" Charles jumped up and snatched them from her, hiding them behind his back.

"Are they from one of your movies?"

"Yeah, yeah, a movie."

"They look… real." She paused, reaching towards him. "The military told me you had to throw those films away."

Charles sighed. "Mom, just forget it. We'll be late."

"But the things in the photos—"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you!"

"Try me." Her eyes flashed. "Charles, what are they?"

_Ugh, I don't have time for this! It's a shame you couldn't be interested when it mattered._ "Fine, you wanna know? They're pictures of an alien that escaped from air force captivity. It attacked us, then we rescued it, and now we're its best friends because it really, _really_ needs our help. Happy?"

His mother gaped at him; then glared. "Charles, don't be smart with me."

"See?" He sighed again. "Whatever. I'm getting dressed."

* * *

Outside the school, bright and early on Monday morning, the entire ninth grade was gathering. Three buses chugged in the parking lot, the luggage compartments underneath being loaded with dozens of bags. More than a hundred students crowded the front lawn, talking with friends, sitting on the bike racks, saying goodbye to parents. The majority seemed excited; a few apprehensive. Teachers counted heads and ticked names on attendance lists, beginning to guide people towards the waiting buses.

Joe watched from the passenger seat as his dad drove towards the school. Apparently, the camp was intended as some kind of teamwork/bonding experience for all the new high school kids, so they were being shipped off to a national park by the Great Lakes for a week to engage in camping, games and 'other activities'. Joe wasn't quite sure how this was supposed to bond them. There were only two middle schools in town – Lillian Middle School and the private religious one – which meant that everyone tended to know each other already. _Basically_ , the whole thing seemed like an excuse to go to Michigan and run around in a forest – which, hey, was pretty okay with him. It'd be fun, right? Unless they were stuck picking up rubbish for community service or something. Nah, it'd probably be activities like orienteering and canoeing, and profusely awkward icebreaker games, and learning how to cook terrible campout meals. Y'know, teamwork-y stuff. Just one week.

Still, that was a whole _week_ off school… and a whole week out of town, too. It was easy to imagine things going awry while they were away, but he told himself that worrying was pointless. _You won't be here, Joe. Nothing you can do._

His dad pulled over in the parking lot, then popped the trunk so they could grab his bags. Joe stepped out, shivering a little. It was cool in the mornings. Although the bag was heavy, he could lift it over his shoulder easily enough. _It'd better be heavy with all the stuff I packed_. His dad locked the police car – which always drew a few curious glances – and they made their way towards the main group.

"Don't do anything stupid," Jack said, watching where he walked.

"Me? I _never_ do anything stupid."

"Heh." Jack grimaced. "We both know that's a lie. And I shouldn't be saying this, being a police officer, but… sometimes, doing the right thing _is_ stupid. It depends on the circumstances. _Read_ the situation. Don't get in any trouble, is what I meant. And maybe it'll be good for you to get out of town for a while."

Joe glanced at him. "Why?"

"Just – if things go real wrong in the next week, at least you won't be in danger."

"Dad, it'll be fine. Trust me."

"Trust _you_? What do you know that I don't?"

_Nothing_ , Joe thought… which Jack must've picked up from his silence.

"You hear anything 'bout the big guy?" his dad asked.

"Cooper said he's busy. So not really."

"Fair enough."

They stopped next to one of the teachers. Around them, others were saying their farewells too – he spotted Alice getting on the farthest bus, giving one last wave to Louis as she climbed the steps.

"I guess I'll see you next week, then," Jack said, hands on hips. "You forget anything?"

"I wouldn't know if I had."

"Right." He grinned. "Have fun doing… whatever you're supposed to be doing. You're going rock-climbing, I know that much. I had to sign a form to let you go rock-climbing."

"Really? That's cool."

Jack's slight air of disapproval revealed he didn't quite agree. For a second, they looked at each other – Jack doing his best to conceal the stress and concern in his eyes, Joe wearing a faint smile because he didn't have anything better. Although most people said he looked more like his mom, their faces _were_ similar; definitely the same, anxious uncertainty.

And Joe wasn't quite sure _what_ to feel. It wasn't a big goodbye, obviously, but still. He should've felt something. Instead, it was just… confusion, like any other day. Like swimming against a current that was far too strong, and all he could do was simply keep his head above water but somehow he was expected to play a game of chess and ice hockey at the same time. Getting away from that pressure for a while, forgetting about those unknowns… to say a weight would be lifted from their shoulders was an understatement.

Huh. That's what he was feeling: _relief._

Then Jack stepped forwards and gave him a brief hug. Arms squeezed his ribs with sudden strength, the Sheriff's badge digging into his cheek. Joe figured it was a bit tighter than intended.

"I'll see you Monday," Jack said, letting go.

"Yeah. See you."

Joe smiled and walked away. He made his way through the crowd, sidestepping around a group of Alice's friends, then loaded his bag underneath the bus. Wind blew his fringe into his eyes and he swept it away. It was a good day. The pale blue sky was only interrupted by the silhouette of a distant air force helicopter, the _thud-thud-thud_ of its rotors barely reaching his ears. Ms. Osborne, the English teacher, ticked off his name and he climbed aboard the bus.

Charles was sitting about half-way down the aisle. "Hey."

"Hey." Joe took a seat beside him. He leaned over, pressing his face against the window, and waved to his dad. Jack waved back.

Soon, the bus pulled away, and he watched the town go. The school. The church. The town hall building. Kathy's house, which had been blown up by a tank but not before Charles had stolen some Coke from their fridge. The park, where he'd been chatting with Alice when he received his first alien vision. The steel mill, which he'd always loved visiting as a kid – seeing all that big, exciting machinery – but not anymore. Smoke from its chimneys wafted across the road to give the air a temporary bitterness. The familiar pine-blanketed hills which, with a bike, had provided an endlessly imaginative playground.

It was home.

_Crap. I forgot to say goodbye to Lucy._

But home didn't feel safe anymore.

* * *

About an hour and a half into the journey, they crossed the border into Indiana. Preston was busy unscrambling a Rubik's cube for the twentieth time; he appeared to have the technique sorted. Next to him, Cary flicked his Zippo lighter on and off.

"Watcha doin'?" Cary asked.

"What does it look like," Preston replied flatly.

" _Boring_."

"And playing with a lighter isn't?"

Cary kicked him. "You read books, right?"

"Ow! Yes, I read books. Sometimes. A lot of the time."

"What's a good book? I wanna start reading books."

"You wanna—" Preston put down the Rubik's cube. " _The Forever War_."

"Sounds cool. Are there guns in it?"

"Yes, actually. Although… it might be too advanced for you."

Behind them, there was a snicker.

Cary balled his fists, but didn't turn around. "I _bet_ Charles is doing that thing."

"That 'thing'?" Preston asked.

"Yeah, that thing. Where he looks really friggin' smug but tries to hide it."

Preston glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, that basically sums it up."

"Your face is super punchable, Charles," Cary called out. "Thought you should know."

"Mine? What about _yours_!? _"_

"It's just… really _squishy_. I wanna punch it so bad."

"Shut up, buckteeth," Charles retorted.

"That reminds me," Martin said, across the aisle. The boy next to him was snoring against the window and every now and then, when the bus passed a pothole, his head would slam into the glass with a sickening _thwack_. "Remember that time you packing-taped me?"

"Questionable verb use, but yes," Preston said.

"Oh yeah, we mummified you with like, three rolls of packing tape. Neck to toe." Charles grinned. "It was so tight you were wriggling around like a worm, it was hilarious."

"You sat on my face, Charles."

He shrugged. "It was a golden opportunity."

"And Joe put slugs on my face."

"I _did_ do that." He smiled sheepishly. "But I did feel bad after."

"Then you left me alone in the park because I couldn't move."

"Heheh. Yeah." Cary snickered. "Such a chump."

"Preston had to rescue me and _drag_ me all the way to his place. I think I figured out how to hop half way there, but still. I had to hop for a _mile_. In _packing tape_. It was _very uncomfortable_."

"It was a sticky situation," Preston murmured. "He complained the whole way."

"Anyway, the point is—"

The bus hit a bump; the sleeping kid next to Martin _slammed_ his skull against the window.

" _How_ is he still asleep? Anyway, the point is I've been wondering how I can get you back," Martin said.

"…get who back?" Joe asked cautiously.

"Mostly Cary and Charles. I remember it being their idea."

"Martin, it was like, two years ago," Charles grumbled. "Way to hold a grudge."

"So?"

"How are you gonna get us back then?"

He turned to face the front, not giving anything away. "…you'll see."

"Oooh, I'm scared," Cary whispered.

"You should be."

Joe shook his head, and leaned down to grab an item from the backpack under his seat. He felt around until his fingers closed around a smooth silver dome. It was maybe three inches in diameter and in inch tall, quite shallow, but with an unblemished surface that appeared to ripple _wrongly_ in the sunlight. He kept it close, out of view of the other students.

"Is that it?" Charles said quietly.

"Yeah. That's the communicator." Joe held it in both hands. It was… cool, and hummed with an inner vibration. He closed his eyes. [Hello?]

[HELLO!] /expectant

Joe flinched. [Hey. So, um… how does this thing work?]

There was a pause.

[Magic!]

_Great._ Super _helpful. I bet Cary's been teaching it to have a sense of humour._ [Maybe I should rephrase that. How do we use the link?]

[Just like now] Cooper replied. [Simple. Ideally no object is needed, but our typical biological methods are not fully compatible. The bacteria do not enjoy your bodies.]

[Sure. So what are you up to? Anything new?] He opened one eye for a moment, and saw Charles staring at him. [Charles says hi.]

[I am building more things] the alien said. [A challenge without the right materials, but not impossible. You will enjoy what I am building. Charles will enjoy what I am building. Also, your camp may be useful.]

[Useful how?]

[May be useful] /withholding. [Unclear. Listen. Wait for information.]

[Okay?] _We don't really have a choice._

[Friends soon. Enemies soon. All soon. Need safe meeting place, use camp for rendezvous. Busy now, talk later—]

The link was cut short. "Huh. That was pointless," he said aloud. For some reason, he could taste sugar in his mouth.

"Really?" Charles asked. "What'd he say?"

"The usual – he was pretty vague. He did mention using the camp for a rendezvous, but nothing actually specific."

"Oh, so we have to be on the lookout for aliens now? Far _out_."

"Aliens? What aliens?" Cary said suddenly, turning round.

"Not so loud!" Charles hissed. "Star Wars! Blah blah blah. Star Wars. Cool."

"Subtle," Preston said.

Charles rolled his eyes. "Whatever. But I reckon there's more important stuff to worry about. If – hypothetically – someone named Martin was trying to get revenge on you, how would you defeat them?"

"Kick 'em in the balls," Cary said instantly.

"Shoot them in the thermal exhaust port," Preston suggested. He went white. "…which I suppose would be the—"

"Kick 'em in the emotions," Joe added.

Charles considered it. "…Dark."

The bus drove onwards, heading north at fifty miles an hour.

* * *

Forman waited outside the military command tent, and smiled beatifically as another officer approached him, bearing fresh news. "The children have left?" he asked.

The officer was short, stocky, and saluted briefly. "Affirmative. Three buses departed from the school two hours ago. They were onboard. Should be far outside the affected zone by now."

"Good. Fan- _tastic_." Forman licked his lips. "Lamb and the others… we can use them as bait."

The officer paused, uncertain. "How so, sir?"

"Wherever they go, trouble does seem to follow, doesn't it? There's really no point keeping them cooped up here; we may as well tail them and see what comes crawling out of the woodwork." Forman tilted his head. "I have suspicions, and I would like to see them confirmed. So, they're bait. They're probably more useful to us this way, as long as they don't actually figure that out for themselves."

"As you say, sir." The officer departed.

Forman smiled again, lifting the flap of the tent behind him. Inside was a row of boxes, or cages – each made of thick bulletproof glass, maybe twice the size of a phone booth, sealed tight. Their air supply was filtered through thick black pipes. From the gloom, there came a rattling, barely-conscious groan.

Inside each cage was… a person.

Or what _had_ been a person, once. Now, they were husks – husks that groaned, and stood, and slept, covered in layers of dead skin and rippling shards of black gunk. No eyes, not anymore. The eyes had been among the first to dissolve. Instead muscles had been replaced, bones had been lengthened, organs had been transformed, all by that magnificent piece of biological engineering that they primitively called a 'virus'. Liquid pooled at the bottom of each box, dark, bubbling, emitting a faint green glow.

As he watched, a slimy, six-fingered hand pressed against the glass of the nearest cage, hints of anguish visible through the fog within. A spiked silhouette, always changing. A bare, beating heart.

" _Help… me…"_

Forman turned away. _I will_ , he thought. _And thank you for your sacrifice._ He tuned the frequency of his radio to the air force command channel and barked the final order. "This is Forman, code hotel-lima-two-echo-three. Mobilise our forces, bio-warfare protocol. Form a perimeter around the town. No one leaves. NO ONE." His eyes narrowed. "And make sure those planes are _on time_."

* * *

"Preston's been acting differently for months," Diane Mills said.

From a chair in the lounge room, her husband looked up. "He's a teenager. It's probably hormones."

"The issues about spending time with his friends, fine. The issues about balancing schoolwork, fine. The constant need to be secretive and not tell us anything – _not_ fine. I can't escape the sense that he's lying to us half of the time."

"Sounds like hormones to me," Craig murmured. He was half-way through an Egyptian history book, not really focused on the discussion.

"I'm having a look around his room," Diane said.

"Sure. You might not like what you find, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know." He closed the book. "Boys. Just don't be too judgemental."

Diane rolled her eyes, then put on her glasses. Preston's bedroom door was closed, with a NASA poster taped to the outside. She hesitated for the briefest moment, then stepped through.

Her son's room, as always, was quite neat. She told him to keep it clean, of course, but Preston was generally an orderly person. That was nice. There was a desk near the window, with a half-working Apple II computer on it which Craig had salvaged from work. The blinds were closed. Next to it was a lamp and a stack of school books. By the bed was another shelf of books, mostly sci-fi and fantasy, with a couple of Lego Space sets on the top shelf. Everything was blue or yellow – blue bedsheets, one blue wall, yellow lights, yellow desk. She couldn't understand why Preston liked yellow so much. It was bright, sure, but you couldn't really _do_ anything with yellow. More space posters were arranged geometrically around the room – diagrams of Apollo, the Voyager probe, the new Space Shuttle that was under testing. A lone discarded t-shirt lay forlornly on the carpet.

She picked it up, and put it on the bed.

_Huh._ That was strange. The one thing Preston never bothered with was making his bed. She could hear him complaining now: _'What's the point? It gets messed up again twelve hours later!_ But it was made, sheets tucked in and perfectly folded.

Under the pillow, she found a note.–

'Hello mom. I hope you're okay. If I die, please watch the film reel under this paper. You'll know what to do. I hope. Also, I would like Martin to have my books. (If Martin is also dead, give them to the library). Wish I could've lived longer though. I love you.'

The film reel was there, as promised, unmarked.

"If I die?" she repeated aloud. "There's no way you're getting away with _that_ , kid."

* * *

Jack Lamb marched down Sutton Street, towards the military blockade.

Jeeps. Armoured personnel carriers. Sandbags. No way through.

He walked. The other deputies followed.

The sun glared down overhead, throwing the scene into sharp relief. On either side were houses – grey brick walls, sky-blue weatherboard, a wooden porch in peeling white paint, new red tiles that glinted and glimmered. Gardens lush from the recent rain. Trees, casting jagged midday shadows. A discarded tricycle on the sidewalk.

A bead of sweat trickled down his neck. He brushed it away. Sutton Street soon joined State Route 31, which was the quickest road to Dayton. Keep driving, and in five minutes you'd pass the Kelvin Gas Station where Pruitt had gone missing. No hope of doing that today though, because past the houses was the bridge... and blocking the bridge were the air force.

They'd been fast. Thorough. A set of four jeeps were parked perpendicular to the road, cutting off both lanes of the bridge. Behind them loomed a fat, ugly-lookin' armoured personnel carrier (probably amphibious, from the shape of it) with six big wheels and a rotating turret on top. _Serious firepower._ Sandbags and barbed wire had been laid across the asphalt, forming a barricade for several squads of soldiers to shelter behind.

Jack gazed to his left. From their vantage point on the hillside, most of Lillian was visible. Past the houses, power lines, and groves of pine trees, he could see that every road that led out of town was similarly blocked – big or small, every single one. More jeeps. More APCs. More soldiers, swarming like ants, ordering traffic to turn back home. There were helicopters, too, sharp-nosed attack choppers buzzing low 'round the steel mill and town hall. Five at least. _Whup-whup-whup-whup-whup._ Distant rotors. Somebody was sitting on the veranda to the right – Debbie Matheson, with her god-damned microwaves – and he motioned at her to get indoors. _No telling how this'll go._

The bridge itself was fifty metres ahead. Though the soldiers were watching their approach with caution, they didn't seem too antsy (yet). He kept his shotgun pointed at the ground, gripping it till his knuckles were white. Rosko had managed to find some dusty riot gear in the station armoury and was holding onto a dented riot shield. _Riot gear_ , Jack thought, chuckling darkly. _Why would we ever need riot gear?_

_Oh. For times like these_. A couple of the other officers had shotguns too, while Skadden was wielding a semi-auto rifle. Jack hadn't asked where he'd found it. Jack, Rosko, Skadden, Jay, Milner, Crawford, Tally, Hernandez. Eight of them, walking down the road. Ten soldiers, waitin' calmly at the other end. _Why is the sun so god-damn BRIGHT?_ And without much else to think about, the silence became almost deafening.

The crackling hum of the nearby electrical substation.

Vaguely irritating birdsong from sparrows on a roof.

Water, rushing under the bridge ahead.

Raised voices.

The honk of a horn, cars backed up all along the main street, just two miles down the hill.

It was surreal. The blockades. The soldiers. The town. Them. In their hands, the guns and riot gear felt more strange than beneficial. _Better to be prepared, though._

_Oh, come on, you're kidding yourself. Prepared for_ what? _If there's a firefight, you're gonna lose. That's it, no use pretending._ He glanced at Milner, who swallowed. They'd parked their squad cars on the sidewalk a hundred metres back which, right now, seemed like a foolishly long way.

When they were thirty yards distant, one of the soldiers stepped forward – an officer. He made his way through a gap in the sandbags and stopped in the middle of the road.

Jack stopped too.

The turret of the APC turned slightly towards him.

He took a step back.

Right now, he was standing just before the bridge: an electrical substation to one side, a red-brick house on the other, land sloping steeply to the river beneath. He wiped more sweat from his forehead. Tried to get rid of the lump in his throat. The stagnant air wasn't doing him any favours and neither was the military presence, although the mismatched band of navy blue behind him did provide _slight_ comfort. The officer carefully removed his beret and placed it on a sandbag. Jack squinted. Standing there – him, the officer, the bridge between them – he felt like an Old West gunslinger. _Though I'd prefer it if things didn't come down to a duel._

"You asked to speak with me, Sherriff," the officer called out, his voice nearly lost in the river.

"Yes, I did. About the blockade."

"Ah, I should've guessed." Lieutenant Forman's familiar laugh echoed across the bridge. "Although, may I ask – why the weapons?"

"…a precaution." Jack managed to keep the quiver from his voice.

Forman shrugged. "Caution _is_ often prudent. But I think, on this occasion, we have been more cautious than you." He gestured to the vehicles behind him, and the soldiers, many of whom had moved a little closer. Their rifles glinted in the sun.

A dog barked. Jack glanced over his shoulder and saw a beagle dart between two houses. It was the smallest thing but somehow, it gave him strength: the sight of dustbins, and letterboxes, and poorly-trimmed hedges, the curving street and the town in miniature behind it… it was _his_. Debbie Matheson and her god-damned microwaves were _his_ problem. They were _his_ people, _his_ town. _Well, not precisely, but you get the idea_. He turned back to Forman, teeth gritted. When he'd first heard about the blockades earlier that morning, his first thought – apart from 'thank Christ Joe got out' – had been a potent mix of anger, fear and despair. At some point, when your enemies were this powerful, you couldn't really fight back anymore. The circumstances were suffocating.

Now, though, he felt only calm.

So, he'd tracked down Forman, who always seemed to be in charge for whatever reason, and had come to ask what the fuck was going on. _Because that's my god-damn job._

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Forman said.

Jack shook his head. "Remove the blockades," he said firmly. "There's no justifying it. Let people through."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Why?"

"Well… how do I explain this. What's about to happen is a very important experiment. It's imperative that it goes ahead. Imperative."

' _Imperative', my ass._ One of the choppers was circling closer, and Jack couldn't help searching the view once more. The exit roads definitely _were_ all blocked; Lillian was a big, elaborate rat trap. How many people lived in that five-mile sprawl? Five thousand? Eight?

"There's no way out," Forman added, reading his glance. "We were particularly thorough. I had to deploy quite a lot of extra help."

Jack turned back to him. "Who _are_ you? You're not just a lieutenant, a lieutenant doesn't get to deploy— why are you in charge of all this?"

"Who or what I am is not important."

"Then tell me what's happening here! And don't say that _that_ isn't important either - those are _real people_ down there, with lives, and families, and it is NOT your place to mess with them."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

Forman spread his hands. "Fair enough. Sheriff, you've swayed me. In ten minutes, a series of air strikes will carpet this valley in a liquid-borne biologically-engineered virus."

"What?"

"Virus. Town. Air strike. You get the idea." Forman mimed a plane with his hand, and made a 'whoosh' noise. "Masks!"

Swiftly, each soldier put on a gas mask which, Jack noticed, had been hanging from their belts. The masks were jet-black rubber with circular filters on each cheek. Emotionless eyes stared through clear, angled visors. Inhuman figures.

"You're hitting the whole _town?!_ " Jack shouted. "With the – a virus? How's that supposed to help?"

Forman slipped on a mask, voice muffled. "The virus needs to be ingested, see. Ingested on a massive scale. But the planes are coming. They're on their way. There is, quite literally, nothing you can do. And our pilots had such a lot of practice at this sort of thing during their time in Vietnam."

Jack's mind raced. _Gas masks – do we have them at the station? A few. Two or three, not enough. Other people might have them…_ "Going to turn everyone into zombies?" he blurted out.

It was hard to tell Forman's slight pause was from surprise. "You _have_ been busy, Sheriff. But on the contrary, something quite different. We've figured it out."

"Figured out what?"

"How to use this for ourselves, of course. How to manipulate this… lifeform."

"Well, apologies if I don't entirely believe you."

"Your belief, Sheriff, does _not matter_. Nine minutes!"

Jack swore, turning to the assembled deputies. "Hernandez, get to the town hall and activate the emergency broadcast system. Tell everyone to—" He trailed off. _Tell everyone to leave? Stay in their homes? Run around panicking? None of those sound like particularly good options._ "Tell 'em to leave if they can. Otherwise stay inside, lock all the doors and windows. Breathe through a towel or something, whatever you can think of. Go!"

Hernandez nodded and sprinted towards a squad car. Twenty seconds later, tires squealed as it peeled off down the hill.

"That won't do you any good," Forman said. "There's no way out."

"Like hell there isn't," he muttered. _What can we do? What can we do…_ The emergency broadcast system was hooked up to speakers on each block (usually used for forest fires or storms), so that'd at least get people moving, but nine minutes wasn't much time. It was _no_ time. _What can we do? If we can't get the people out… we have to stop the planes coming in. How do we stop a damn bomber squadron? They don't typically supply cops with anti-air._

"Can we stop the planes?" he wondered aloud. The soldiers were staring, but he didn't care. Forman seemed content to gloat.

"Wha – wha – whaddaya mean 'stop' 'em?" Rosko said, the panic making him stutter. "Jack, what's this virus?"

"Bad news, is what it is. No time to explain. But we gotta try and stop this and from my view, that means removing those planes from the equation. At least temporarily."

"Like, call off the air strike somehow," Crawford said, exhaling. "Hell, we don't know how to deal with air strikes."

"Call it off?" Skadden frowned. "I mean, that's technically possible, but you'd have to give those planes and their pilots a military order – an official one, or at least one they'd believe, and to do _that_ you'd need… hmm." He paused.

"Skadden, you need to hurry the fuck up and finish that sentence," Jack said.

"Sure, Sheriff. Sorry. Just thinking. Basically you'd need to know what frequency they transmit on, and which codes they use to legitimise their messages, and probably the structure of their orders as well."

"Would he know that?" Jack asked, pointing at the Lieutenant.

"Probably."

"Hmm." Jack bit his lip, the shotgun heavy in his hands. He'd almost forgotten he was holding it.

Then, at the edge of his hearing, he thought he detected a distant roar. A white-noise whine, like aeroplane engines.

There wasn't enough time. Never was.

Jack stepped onto the bridge.

* * *

When Diane saw the monster, she didn't know what to think.

There it was. Real. No doubt about it. (There were some things you couldn't fake, especially if you were a 14-year-old boy.)

The creature leapt onto the legs of the water tower. The air force fired at it. Every few moments, Preston would turn the camera towards his face to add commentary she couldn't hear. The projector whirred.

She glanced to her husband. "Hormones, right?"

He didn't reply. She kept watching. Metal whirled through a starlit sky. The grainy, jerky footage possessed an inescapable authenticity. _And for whatever reason, Preston thought I'd know what to do with this information._

Suddenly, a siren blasted through their reverie – the town emergency siren, its characteristic high-low wail designed to force people to pay attention. Diane twitched. _Haven't heard that for a while. Not since the fire…_

"I'll check it out," Craig muttered. Diane heard the front door open, and there was an urgent muted conversation. It sounded like the neighbours. On the screen, the metal was forming a curving, silver shape. _A starship_ , she realised. _It's not just a monster. It's an_ alien. _Oh… my… god._ It was one of those sudden revelations that her academic brain had been trained not to believe – not immediately, not without irrefutable evidence to back it up – but the film, on first watch, was pretty stunning. _People have to see this. Record it, analyse it. But why the heck does_ Preston _have this? He doesn't_ take _risks, he doesn't even like rollercoasters – he wouldn't put his life in danger to save his own mother… would he?_ Her mind was already whirling with possibilities as for what to do next.

Then Craig grabbed her shoulder. "Diane, we have to leave. RIGHT NOW."

* * *

"I'd stop if I were you, Sheriff," Forman said.

Jack stopped. The first line of soldiers had weapons raised.

"Do not approach any further," Forman said. Then he shrugged. "That's my advice, anyway. Up to you if you follow it."

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not in the mood for stupid decisions." Seven minutes. Seven minutes, to stop a plane (or planes). The Lieutenant was in the open, relaxed as usual. Smiling, probably, beneath the gas mask.

He wondered if he could simply shoot the guy. Aim the shotgun, pump, fire. If he was prepared, it'd take less than a second, and at twenty yards it'd do a lot of damage. One shot. Dead. Element of surprise. The other police could probably take out a few soldiers before any of 'em fired back, and that was the only way they'd _ever_ win a straight firefight: surprise. _What's the best way to tackle this?_ The trigger of the shotgun felt warm beneath his finger, his hands moist with perspiration…

_Ugh, to hell with it. I can't just shoot him – not without provocation._

_Or at least, more_ direct _provocation. You're a policeman, Jack, now's not the time for that to suddenly stop meaning something._ Plus, the APC was a problem. Standing on the bridge, exposed as he was – the blockade ahead, an open street behind – there wasn't much cover from a .50 calibre turret. It was already the wrong side of nerve-wracking. The hairs on his neck twitched. A car rumbled, approaching. One of the deputies would turn it back.

Then, sirens.

The emergency sirens! One was mounted at the end of the road, its rising-falling alarm tone blaring across the tranquil gardens. The slightly-delayed response from other sirens nearby formed a discordant, off-beat accompaniment, like a hundred cats being murdered at once.

Five seconds later, a message started broadcasting: ' _Attention all citizens. This is an emergency warning from the Lillian Police Department. An airborne, toxic agent is being carried towards the town. It is a liquid – black in colour, repeat, black – and should NOT be inhaled, swallowed or allowed contact with exposed skin. Please stay inside the nearest sealed building, or leave the immediate area if the way is clear…_ '

Jack felt the tiniest shred of relief; at least Hernandez had managed to get a message out. At minimum that would – _could_ – give people a chance. The broadcast continued with another thirty seconds of instructions, then was replaced by the alarm tone once more. He looked at the gathered police, who had made the sensible decision to move out of the direct line of fire. Tally and Milner were standing ready by the electrical substation fence, while Crawford was lounging against a nearby streetlight. Still, they were trapped – if not by the army, then by the air strikes. _Forman's never going to give up those codes. And none of those soldiers will call off the strike voluntarily, even if we ask_ real _nicely._

Jack took another step forwards.

"Drop him," Forman barked.

_CRACK!_

Jack felt a bullet whistle past his face.

He immediately sprinted towards the side of the bridge, diving over the concrete barrier that separated the road from the footpath. His arm hit the railing and sent jolts of pain through his ribs.

More bullets. None hit him.

Deafening gunfire exploded above the sirens.

In the street, police ran for cover as Forman pulled his hand free of his belt, revealing a thick-barrelled pistol; immediately fired at Rosko just as the cop turned to face him and his riot shield shattered with the impact. Another soldier jammed his finger on the trigger of his assault rifle and sprayed a blanket of suppressing fire across the road, his arc of bullets cutting the air like a scythe, practically ripping Deputy Crawford in two. The soldier didn't let go for a full five seconds and the sustained burst made everybody still standing hit the deck.

Jack lay on the edge of the bridge. For a few moments he couldn't even remember how to breathe, but amidst the shock he realised he hadn't actually been shot. _I'll thank Jesus for that one._ The waist-high barrier gave him cover from the military and he rolled onto his hands and knees. Everything had gone to hell. The street was a battlefield. It was god-damn _insane_. No real time to contemplate it because even now there were bullets flyin' above his head and if the barrier hadn't been there he would've been dead ten second ago. _No more fuckin' moral dilemmas – I think we've got free reign to kill these bastards._ "Stay DOWN!" he roared, hoping the deputies would hear him above the cacophony of gunfire. "And free to engage! I count ten hostiles! Repeat, ten hostiles!" Chunks of concrete rained down all around him as a stream of bullets impacted the barrier above.

Frantic voices shouted half-finished replies.

_"—return fire!"_

_"—Crawford's down! Rosko ain't moving!"_

_"—can't get a fucking angle—"_

Jack crawled back, away from the soldiers, hoping none would have the bright idea of hopping over the barrier after him. He reached the end, peered out cautiously and saw Rosko flat on his back, half-way down a driveway. He wasn't moving. His gaze shifted to Deputy Crawford, sprawled in the street. Crawford's eyes were wide open, his face covered in blood – blood which had sprayed up from his own stomach as the barrage of gunfire had cut across him. He was probably dead.

…dead.

The thought knocked on the door of Jack's mind and he refused to let it in. He'd known Crawford for twenty years. _No one's dying._ "Not today." Even as he said the words he recognised their futility; winced at the whip-crack of every shot, startlingly loud and incredibly close. _BANG! BA-BA-BANG!_ It wasn't something you were supposed to hear, not here, not surrounded by quaint little houses and rusting fire hydrants and stupid god-damn topiaries. He took a breath. _You're in shock. Get over the shock. You've still got work to do._ Two breaths, that was all he had time for. At least his hands weren't shaking anymore.

Jack gripped his shotgun, popped up over the barrier, and fired.

_BAM!_

The stock leapt against his shoulder and the shot went high. He ducked back into cover. _Come on, you trained with this! Concentrate!_ He gritted his teeth, gun held loose, prepared for the recoil. _BAM!_

His next shot sparked off a jeep and made one of the soldiers dive to the ground.

More useful was his brief glimpse of the scene. The military had stayed clustered together, hunkered down behind their vehicles and sandbags in the central section of the bridge; Forman was on the frontline, firing occasionally with his pistol. Jack found himself thankful for their gas masks, which must've made it more difficult to see but it was still six – no, five police against ten. The APC wasn't mowing them down yet either, probably because the infantry were doing a good enough job already. Whenever a soldier had to reload, another on the flank would lay down suppression like clockwork.

Not far from Jack, behind a junction box at the substation, Deputy Skadden leaned out and returned fire with his hunting rifle, drowning out the _rat-tat-tat_ of M-16s with a deep, puncture-like _boom_. Next to him, Tally did the same with his revolver. Milner was huddled in the entryway of a house on the other side of the street. Along with Crawford he'd been closest to the bridge, but whilst Crawford had been caught in the crossfire, Milner had scrambled across a garden to the nearest point of safety.

More bullets slammed into the concrete barrier. Jack pressed himself to the ground, counted to three, then quickly glanced at Rosko again. He was still lying motionless in the street, broken riot shield beside him.

And then suddenly his arm moved.

"Rosko's moving!" Jack yelled. "I'm gonna need cover to go out and get him!"

"You stay there!" Milner yelled back. "I'm closer! I can—" He fired off a couple of shots, then swore and pressed himself against a doorway as a dozen more flew back with interest. "Shit!" He winced, eyes wide. "I'm alright! I'm alright! Give me covering fire!"

_How are we supposed to do that?_ Jack was about to speak what Skadden gave a thumbs up.

"Okay, NOW!"

In unison, the police whipped out from their cover positions and returned fire at the bridge. The noise was deafening. Sandbags burst in a dozen places as Jack pumped his shotgun as fast as it'd go. Six rounds left, five, four— Windows on the jeeps shattered. The unexpected strength of the assault forced the military to cease firing for a moment and take cover, Forman's beret ducking out of sight. Three, two one— Jack fished some new shells from his belt and started loading them into the gun.

In the street, Milner fell to his knees next to Rosko. He grabbed the unconscious deputy's shoulders, dragged him quick behind a parked Chevy. One of the soldiers screamed, falling in a spray of blood as Skadden's rifle punched right through his neck. Liquid slicked the chassis of the APC behind him.

Something unpleasant roiled in Jack's stomach. He finished reloading, wiped his fingers. _Nine versus six._

_How many minutes? Five? Four?_

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a soldier climbed over the barrier a dozen yards ahead – onto Jack's side, rifle raised. Jack brought his shotgun up, aimed down the barrel. If Skadden's rifle sounded like puncture noises, then the shotgun was a cannon; the soldier's side exploded in a splash of red as the pellets found their mark. He jolted back sharply, spinning sideways, then fell over the railing off the edge of the bridge.

"Get out of there, Jack! There's another comin' for you!" Tally's voice sounded distant.

Jack realised he'd been shot. He'd been shot. The bullet had—

Had he?

No. No, just grazed. His leg goddamn _hurt_ , though, the round tearing right through his pants and leaving a vicious red streak on his calf. "Yeah, I'm coming!" he shouted.

"Want me to call the truck?" Milner added, between hoarse, shuddering breaths. The man was covered in sweat and panic, though at least Rosko was now standing.

_The truck! I forgot about the truck! We spent time setting up a proper PLAN and you clean forgot as soon as the shooting started._ "Do it!" he replied. "Do it now!"

Milner crouched and started barking into his police radio. Jack hoped he'd be quick. _Four minutes._ The deputy turned, gave Jack a thumbs up. "All good! Thirty seconds!" Then he crawled to the front of the Chevy – towards the bridge, searching for a better angle. He straightened, gesturing to Rosko—

Without warning, Milner's chest exploded. Shot from behind by a high-powered weapon. He convulsed violently as a gout of blood spewed from his ribcage. The force of the impact bent his back at an obscene angle and Jack heard a sickening _crack_ as the young deputy's spine shattered.

_Hell._

_Turns out being handsome won't save you from a bullet._ That was all Jack could think. It was a shitty thought. Rosko screeched, scrambling away. The APC turret smoked. They were being overwhelmed. Just last week Milner had been saving old ladies' cats from storm drains; shooting people wasn't a main part of the job description, and neither was getting _shot_. This wasn't their environment, it wasn't what they were good at. Milner… he'd been seeing someone, hadn't he? A girl… Jack prepared to fire off a couple rounds as his blood trickled downhill. _And it's your fault,_ a voice whispered inside of him. _It's your fault they're here. It's your fault they're dying all around you._

_It's your fault if you leave Joe without any parents._

Then, an engine roared at the far end of the street, and Jack whirled round and saw a glorious sight. Careening around the bend came a huge white truck: a six-wheeled cab with a tanker trailer behind it, already rolling at forty miles an hour and not slowing down.

Always worthwhile to have a contingency plan. (Apparently, the truck belonged to Jay's brother, who'd been planning to scrap it and wanted the insurance money. Once they'd learned of the blockades, it had been Jay's idea to use it for, his words, 'a distraction'. This felt like more than a distraction. He hoped Jay wasn't driving it.) The truck thundered past Skadden and Rosko, who had to leap out of the way, tossed the Chevy aside like a children's toy. The huge engine was belching smoke, sucking in air, tires screaming, and whipped past Jack at fifty, onto the bridge, aiming straight for the blockade.

It happened so fast the soldiers barely had time to react. The APC started dumping rounds – big _whomping_ flashes of light – a couple of metal chunks torn from the truck cab – but fifteen tons of metal wasn't gonna be slowed that easily. The tanker trailer skidded along behind, bouncing and sliding. Soldiers split to the left and right, running, trying to escape, the truck getting closer and closer and closer until – with an almighty crunch – the kind of sound that caused physical pain – it hit the waiting blockade.

Jeeps flew. The first two were shoved to the left and right, crashing through the bridge railings, into the water on either side. The next two stayed on the bridge, barely, one spinning wildly as it bounced onto a sandbag barrier, the other flipped and sliding along on its side, sparking and squealing on the asphalt. Then came the APC. The tanker hit it dead on with the momentum it had left – nose crumpling, one axle snapped – and the armoured vehicle's fat, angular body tipped up, the truck's nose digging under it, shoving it back like a big hydraulic ram, until metal caught on concrete and the truck came to an abrupt stop.

The trailer, though, didn't want to. It tore from its mount and skidded sideways, a giant steel pendulum, before rolling onto its side and slamming into the wreckage perpendicular to the bridge. It was sound like a gong. Jack saw a couple of soldiers dive out the way, one falling into the churning waters ten yards below.

Smoke.

Spilled gas.

Fading sparks and echoes.

Jack squinted, rubbing his eyes. _Jesus Christ._ They'd technically made the barricade _worse_ by adding the truck, but at least no one was shooting at him anymore. Dust started to rise from the wreckage, mixing with thick, oily smoke. _Jesus CHRIST._ The tanker blocked the entire bridge, like a wall, although the truck cab itself was relatively undamaged. Sandbags and equipment crates were strewn across the road, plastic and metal crumpled together.

Somebody moved inside the cab. It was Deputy Jay. Jack stared in shock. He looked conscious, at least, raising his foot to kick out the windscreen—

A soldier appeared on the other side of the cab; climbed onto the engine block and, calm as you like, drew a pistol and shot Jay in the head. Then Skadden shot at _him_ but missed, the bullet ruffling a pine tree on its way up the hill. The soldier fell away.

"No!" Jack coughed, half-choking, half-shouting. _No more._

Jay was dead too. He had to be dead. No one lived while missing half their skull.

_Two minutes._

"Jack!" Tally shouted, his voice hollow, empty. "The town…"

Jack looked to the west. An air force cargo plane – a quad-engined Starlifter – was flying low through the valley, its path tracing a straight line from the baseball diamond on one side of town to the elementary school on the other. As he watched, it crossed the town border and started spewing a rain of black mist, which expanded and fell in a two-hundred-metre-wide arc. The mist appeared near-solid from this distance, thick black droplets turning lawns and houses to shadow, blanketing the ground in darkness as easily as a farmer spraying crops. _A black plague._

His heart plummeted. _We're too late. All this bullshit, all this effort… it can't be for nothing._ Some part of his mind – the optimistic part, which Elizabeth liked – told him that the plane was flying awfully low, maybe to maintain accuracy, maybe to supply a controlled dose, which meant it'd take at least three or four passes to cover that section of the valley. There was still time. For some people, there were still minutes left.

The plane kept flying. Jack tore his gaze away.

And saw Lieutenant Forman.

The Lieutenant was lying against the concrete barrier on the right-hand side of the bridge, amidst a scattered spray of sandbags. As Jack watched, his eyes flickered open. While the other soldiers had been far enough back to retreat, that meant they were now blocked off by the wreckage of the tanker, and in the confusion, Forman had been trapped on the police half of the bridge.

Forman was alone.

Jack vaulted over the railing. Started running towards him. The officer saw him coming, still groggy, tried to raise his pistol – Jack fired his shotgun into the barrier to Forman's left, tearing pockmarks in the concrete. The pistol clattered from his hand. His gas mask was covered in dust.

Jack reached him. One of the Lieutenant's legs was bent at a strange angle, his olive green uniform torn by debris. He sat against the barrier, breathing heavily, and fixed Jack with a happy little stare. Even though Jack couldn't see his lips he just _knew_ the asshole was smiling.

"Call off the strike," Jack said hoarsely. "Do it now. Call it off, or I swear to god I'll kill you."

"Oh, no you won't. You're too good for that." Forman coughed, a wet, sickly sound. "Always meddling with affairs you don't understand, trying to be such a _saint_ – you and your son both. Some motherfuckers always try to ice-skate uphill… and where has it gotten you?" He pointed aimlessly at the wreckage. The blood. The smoke.

"I'd say that this is more your fault than mine," Jack growled.

"Eh. You're probably right." He chuckled strangely. "It usually is."

Jack knelt down, bringing his face close. "Call it OFF."

"I'm sorry, Sheriff, but I think it's rather too late."

The air suddenly overflowed with a jet-engine rumble and a grey military cargo plane came speeding over the hill. It was flying low above the trees, barely a hundred yards in altitude, rapidly approaching the bridge and the town soon after. As he watched, a gaping cargo door retracted on its underside.

Jack spun around, shouting to the police still standing. "Get back! Get inside, now! Find a mask!" Rosko and Skadden started scrambling to the nearest house. He wasn't sure if that'd actually help, but it was better than being out in the open—

_CRACK!_

Something punched through his shoulder. He fell backwards, smacking his head on the road, but his mind was suddenly crystal clear.

He'd been shot. For real, this time. He stayed frozen for a moment, waiting. No pain, not yet. Carefully, he touched his shoulder, and his fingers came back red. He looked down; left shoulder, above the heart. That was good. That was… good. He waited for another bullet, but none came. His shoulder started to throb – starting at a whisper, growing with every heartbeat. _Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-damp._ The pain was on its way.

Forman hadn't moved. There was a radio on the Lieutenant's belt; maybe, if he could reach it, there might be a way to…

Jack tried to get up, but couldn't, so instead, he lay there, staring at the sky.

His eyes closed for a moment, and when they reopened, the plane was passing overhead: a grey crucifix, slicing through the clouds. As it passed, the black mist showered from its belly, like one of those water-bombing planes they used to put out fires, except instead of water it was dumping ash. The mist looked strangely pretty as it fell, spirals of darkness dancing on the wind.

He held his breath. A futile gesture.

_Thank God Joseph isn't here._

Blackness started encroaching on his vision.

And, just as he was about to pass out, he saw two figures. Their faces peered down at him, as if from a great distance. One he recognised, from… from… from a time when he hadn't been shot. Not too long ago, he supposed. Blonde hair. Sharp face. The other he hadn't seen before, though she looked… Japanese?

The women spoke for a moment, their words unintelligible. He tried to focus, but frustratingly, the world kept slipping away. Sand through fingers. Hourglass running out.

Abruptly, the faces disappeared behind a pair of gas masks. Hands grabbed his legs. He couldn't see, for some reason. Why couldn't he see? Somebody was dragging him away. Somebody…

_Elizabeth? Is that you?_

And that was his last thought for a good, long while, before the darkness consumed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's that traditional first sentence in which I apologise for how long this chapter took, because I was busy. (Honestly, I was busy. Not anymore though!) But with that, the Lillian story is essentially done and dusted, and now we're on the road with Joe and co. ROAD TRIP! WOOO!
> 
> Also: It turns out I started the novelisation almost exactly five years ago, so... thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed! If you're sticking around, here's to another five years… or three. I hope I can get it done in two :-)
> 
> Assorted credits: Calvin & Hobbes and Ice Station.


	36. The Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HEY IT'S ANOTHER CHAPTER WHICH COULD PROBABLY BE A LOT SHORTER BUT WHATEVER THERE'S SOME NICE MOMENTS IN IT.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Credit goes to Persona 4 for some dinner & tent dialogue, Space Camp by Brigid Lowry for various small moments, and random school experiences for the rest. Thanks for reading!

_"That's when the invasion_ really _started. When the excrement hit the air conditioning, so to speak. Alien craft dominating our airspace, doing strafing runs, landing troops, Australia to Iceland, nobody sure which were friends and which were enemies. It was hell, those first few days. Hell and isolation. And if we hadn't managed to find those kids – and they hadn't managed to save that Muktian, with the information that she had – it might've been a whole lot worse."_

— _A retrospective interview with General Timothy Willits, April 14th 1993 for NPR_

* * *

A fleet of two-seater kayaks bobbed across the water, mimicking a swarm of bright blue bees – very slow, disoriented and concussed bees who really should've stayed in bed that morning. It's difficult enough to keep fifty kayaks in order, even in ideal circumstances, but these kayaks were being crewed by junior high students who (bluntly) had no idea what they doing. The swarm, which had begun its life as a relatively orderly rectangle, had been transfigured into a misshapen egg of splashing, squealing and general chaos just fifty yards from the lakeshore.

Joe found himself trapped near the middle of the chaos-egg, in the back seat of a kayak, Rachel at the front. Charles and Preston were off to the left, travelling at a distinct diagonal; Cary and Cameron Loveland were ten yards away going in _entirely_ the wrong direction, the red-haired boy regretting his choice of partner more with every passing second.

"Cary, we have to— we have to turn the other way. FAR OUT! IT'S NOT THAT HARD!"

Alice had partnered with Dan Anderson, bringing up the rear. Joe craned his neck, searching for her, and faced the front just in time to catch a splash from Rachel's oar.

"Sorry," she murmured.

The scene for all this dreadful violence was a wide, circular lake, a mile or two across. Ostensibly it was a popular kayaking spot, though today it was otherwise deserted (perhaps for good reason). Its shores were blanketed by tall, pencil-thin pines, crowding together and leaning against one another like bristles on a hairbrush; gravelly beaches descended to the waterline where they met a clear, calm surface. Rotting branches and algae-slicked stones were visible on the shallow lakebed.

In the centre of the lake was a wooded island, and reaching it was the afternoon's goal. Rocks jutted from the water around it, a hump of land a hundred yards end-to-end, dense with vegetation. Right now, it seemed depressingly far away.

Their history teacher – Mr Gerstmann – had received the misfortune of being assigned as one of their supervisors. His wiry arms looked absurdly thin protruding from his puffy orange lifejacket, but he was moving at a decent clip, wild white hair flapping in the breeze. He cut across the front of the swarm like a warning shot, herding them in the right direction.

"Ziss way!" he screeched, German accent gaining strength with every word. "Vee must go ziss way! Is easy, ferry easy, I do not know vye you haff trouble! Come!" He tried to turn sharply and nearly capsized his kayak, flapping his arms to stay balanced. "Augh!"

Joe kept paddling. The key was to stay synchronised with your partner, so he watched Rachel and tried to match her pace. _Left side, right side, left side, right side._ The person at the back was responsible for steering and occasionally he made a wider stroke to push them back on course. His other _vitally_ important task was fending off any kayaks about to ram them from the rear, which usually involved whacking somebody with his oar. _Kill me now._

"Does Mr Gerstmann seem crazy to you?" Rachel asked suddenly. Her black hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, a purple butterfly perched on the elastic.

"…Always." Joe narrowed his eyes. "He never gives me A's for my history essays."

"A tragedy, I'm sure."

"It totally is. I wrote some rad essays." Although he couldn't see her face Joe knew she was smiling.

"Sore subject, I'm guessing? I'm specifically referring to now, though," Rachel added.

"Right. I knew that. He is being a bit… louder, than usual?"

"Good. That fits. Because I'm ninety-percent sure he's been drunk this whole trip."

Joe scanned the horizon. Mr Gerstmann was busy harassing the left flank, showering abuse on those falling behind. "Getton vizzit, you morons! More effort! More coordination! You are schupposhed to be in _high_ _school_ , I cannot believe how schtupit" – he burped – "how schtupit you are beingk! Augh!"

"Sure. I can see that," Joe murmured. He paused, then looked over his shoulder, searching for Alice. She was still a distance behind them, talking to Dan, leaning forwards in her seat.

_I wonder what they're talking about._

Dan said something. Then she laughed – a big, free laugh, skipping across the lake.

All of a sudden he felt a sting in his heart. _I wonder what they're—_

"Joe?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah?"

"You should steer."

He realised they were two seconds from colliding with Charles and Preston. He reached out with his oar, paddling furiously.

… _BAM!_

The boats rocked, sliding together, then splitting apart as they followed the curved outlines of their hulls. Luckily, the kayaks were fairly stable.

"Ahoy there!" Charles said brightly.

"Ahoy," Rachel said, attempting to wave, but the combination of oar and lifejacket made it difficult. (The puffy orange vests were slightly too big, making everyone look like a terrible version of the Hulk).

"How goes it, Captain Yukimura?"

"Excellently, Captain Kaznyk."

"Shall we proceed together, like a pair of jolly freebooters?"

"Sure. Cool beans."

Charles pursed his lips. "Had to ruin the fantasy there, didn't you."

They did their best to stay parallel. Around them, the swarm of kayaks sliced through the water, or in most cases, wiggled. Although the water was chilly, the sun was warm enough to make the whole affair relatively pleasant, and Joe had to admit the act of paddling had become semi-relaxing. The island even looked closer than it had five minutes ago.

"Preston, you're slacking off," Charles barked.

"Charles, that is completely false."

Charles looked over his shoulder. "I don't see you paddling."

"Because I have to steer sometimes."

" _Bogus_."

"Joe, tell him," Preston said. "As _navigators_ it's our _job_ to—"

"Preston, shut up and row!"

Joe shrugged, then glanced behind them again. Alice was still talking to Dan; as he watched, she grinned, shaking her head while Mr. Gerstmann glided past. He could see her lips moving but it was impossible to hear from this far away. _What are they talking about? It must be pretty interesting._

"Joe? What is it?" Rachel asked curiously.

"Nothing."

And, because the universe is like that sometimes, a sheet of water hit him in the face. He spluttered, biting his lip at the venomous cold as it dripped from his hair, down his back, into the bottom of the kayak, frozen like a Greek hero who'd run into Medusa when least expecting it. Rachel was thoroughly soaked as well.

Cary smiled, paddle in hand. He was cruising along beside them – having evidently caught up, thanks to Cameron's patience – and looked quite satisfied with his handiwork, nearly invisible inside his lifejacket.

"What was that for?" Joe groaned.

Cary shrugged. "I was aiming at Charles. You were in the way."

"That's not an excuse—"

"Psyche!" He stabbed his paddle into the lake, launching another water-arc towards Joe's boat.

Sadly, physics made avoidance impossible. Joe resisted the urge to retaliate – _life tip: don't get into fights with Cary because he will take it WAY too far –_ and tapped his partner on the shoulder. "Back up!" he hissed. "Before Charles starts—"

Rachel was already moving. Furiously, they swept their oars to the front, shoving the kayak backwards _just_ in time to avoid a full-on splash war.

"Firing the cannons!" Charles dug his paddle in deep and wrenched it in a wide arc, almost losing his grip but drenching Cary in a fairly impressive silty rainbow. Cary screeched, riposting with six or seven rapid-fire stabs that forced Charles to hunch for cover. Rachel ducked but they were sufficiently out of harm's way; Joe wiped his face as water spewed back and forth. The real losers were Preston and Cameron. Preston wanted no part of it, gasping in alarm, desperately trying to paddle the kayak away as Cameron did the same on Cary's side, lying low to minimise the damage. The two kayaks slowly pun in place as Mr. Gerstmann advanced from the rear, having reverted to German in his rage.

_"Nein! NEIN NEIN NEIN!"_

In the epic battle of strength vs. agility, Charles was the first to reach his anger threshold (which basically meant Hulking out). He stood in his kayak, wobbling more than jelly in an earthquake, and tried leaping across the five-foot gap to football-tackle Cary into the lake.

It did not go well.

* * *

"Anyone seen my toothbrush?"

"Try not to knock my tent, if you don't mind. It's falling over already, without your help."

"Man, I'm whacked."

"How are we meant to cook with this stupid thing?"

"Look at the sky, so many stars, hey?"

"Yeah, cool. Anyone seen my toothbrush?"

Their campsite was situated in a wide, dirt-packed clearing, half a mile from the lake. The group's tents filled fifty percent of it with haphazard canvas rows, the other half dotted with wooden picnic tables, cooking pits, and a pair of brick shower blocks. It was 7PM, getting dark quickly as the sun sank further below the treetops. Wildlife was already beginning to emerge. Thin, opal-eyed lizards darted through the pine needles underfoot, while clouds of pale moths swarmed and flickered around spotlights at the edge of the clearing. A smoky haze filled the air as the students attempted to cook dinner.

_Key word: attempted_ , Joe thought, staring glumly at their cooking pot. It simmered above the coals in the firepit, the stew inside starting to bubble unpleasantly.

Beside him, Martin rubbed his mittens together. "What'd you put in?" he asked.

"Um… beans? Potatoes? Lots of tomato soup?"

"Then why is it grey?"

"I don't know!"

"It's probably because of the apricots," Charles said, appearing on the other side. A sky-blue scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck, and he brushed away a couple of floating embers.

"Apricots aren't supposed to go in _stew_ ," Martin said. "Also, they're not grey."

"Yes they are," Charles said.

"I didn't think you were THAT colourblind—"

"What?" Charles frowned. "Oh, I thought you were talking about the stew. No, I'm pretty sure my mom puts apricots in stew all the time."

"Well, I'm pretty sure she doesn't," Martin replied.

* * *

They sat at one of the picnic benches, nursing untouched bowls of what Preston had dubbed the 'uninspiring' stew. Around them, other groups were already eating their concoctions, to varying degrees of enjoyment.

"Man, I'm starving," Cary said. "Dude, I bet the girls are really good at cooking. I bet they're _reallyreallygood_."

"I hope so," Martin said. His stomach grumbled. "I'm just glad they agreed to share."

Soon, Alice and Rachel approached, trailed by Violet and Phoebe. Violet, typically, had managed to find time to change into sparkly pyjamas, while Phoebe was wearing a much more sensible parka. Rachel set their pot down on the bench.

"Uh – sorry for the wait," Alice said. "Um… we… put a lot of love into it?" She sounded mysteriously uncertain.

"Clichéd, but I'll allow it," Preston murmured.

The boys shuffled along the bench to make room, five to a side. Rachel took the lid off the pot – wincing slightly as she did so – and doled out scoops of rice for everyone, doused with what was, technically, a curry. Joe stared at his plate. The rice looked normal enough, but… the curry was a thick, gelatinous brown, with little bits of purple and orange hiding amongst the meat. Worryingly, it was pungent enough to make Joe's eyes water.

"Bon appetit?" Charles said, eyeing his food nervously.

"So sophisticated," Cary replied. "CHOW TIME!" He whipped his knife and fork around like a fencer, then started sawing at some… beef?

It was hard to tell. It was probably beef.

Joe elected to start with the boys' effort. "This is nice," he said, manfully tucking into the dubious-looking (but okay-tasting) grey dollop in his bowl.

"Is it, Joe?" Martin asked. "Is it?"

"Ehhhh…" He swallowed. "Not really."

"Urh! AGH! Aaarghraaaw!" Cary gagged. "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS! I mean, what kinda—" He coughed. Then coughed again. "Curry's supposed to be like, spicy! Or peppery! This just _stinks_! And it's gritty too! It's somehow both gritty and slimy and it's got squishy parts in it. It's so friggin' nasty I can't even swallow!"

"That is a _reaction_ ," Rachel murmured.

Alice shrugged. "It just didn't mix well. It does offer a wide variety of textures—"

"It's slop!" He pushed his bowl away, then spat what remained in his mouth onto the dirt.

"C'mon, it's not _that_ bad - that's just your opinion." Alice glanced at Joe for support.

Joe raised an eyebrow. _Don't look at me_. He tried scooping up another spoonful of stew, felt his stomach disagree quite strongly, and put the spoon back down. Charles was next to attempt the curry and couldn't get through more than three bites.

"That's inedible," he gasped, doubled over. "That's fully inedible. I am now _very_ sick—"

"I told you! It's crap!" Cary yelled.

"Don't swear," Rachel said. "It's bad taste."

Martin snorted in the background.

"Uninspiring stew versus Mystery Curry X…" Preston grumbled. "Whoever wins, we lose?"

"Seriously?" Martin asked. "Are we the only group without actual food?"

They looked at the neighbouring table, where Dan, Cameron, Holly and a few others were happily tucking into their meal. It smelt good. Cary's stomach rumbled… and kept rumbling.

"Sorry," Phoebe said.

"Really, I think _everyone_ should be sorry," Alice added, giving the boys' stew a scowl.

Then, because the world is a terrible and unjust place, Mr Gerstmann's voice echoed across the clearing. "I hope you enjoy dinner, because you must finnish soon! Youngsters like yourselfs should hurry and sleep after eating, yes! Iz now time for us teachers to have some… drinksh, yesh! Drinksh!"

* * *

Joe followed Alice back towards the tents. The dinner experiment, it seemed, had been a disaster of Titanic proportions.

"At least yours wasn't toxic," Alice said.

"It still wasn't GOOD." He grimaced. "The apricots didn't help."

"No, they really didn't."

The boys' and girls' tents were on opposite sides of the campsite, a wide dirt path between them. In the ghostly half-light, as the cooking fires died down, more and more of the pale white moths dipped and dived between the trees.

"Night," Alice said, turning towards her tent.

"Night," Joe replied. "I hope our dreams are better than dinner."

"Me too."

He saw her shiver a little in the cold, and looked down. _It_ is _chilly. Not quite 'see your breath' chilly, but close._ "You, uh… you were Dan's partner today, right? For the boats? What were you…" He paused in a way that he hoped was nonchalant but really, really wasn't. "What were you guys talking about?"

"What were we talking about?" Alice gave him a 'don't-be-weird' look. " _Stuff_ , Joe. Is there something specific you're— oh." She narrowed her eyes; then, a slight smile started to reveal itself at the corners of her lips. "You're _jealous_."

"What? No I wasn't—"

"You were jealous!" She stepped closer, still smiling. "How adorable."

He blushed, lost for words.

"That's funny. Funny, but also kinda disappointing. I mean, Dan's neat, and he's great at telling jokes – he wants to be a comedian – but trust me, you've got _nothing_ to worry about. I talk to a bunch of people, we both do. It doesn't mean anything."

"I know, I know, but…" _Dan's a really cool guy._ He shook his head. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise. Just trust me. I trust you."

"I do. I do. I'll… stick to being adorable," he said.

"Good." She tweaked his noise, then disappeared among the tents. "You're good at that."

Joe waited for a moment, exhaling deeply, then walked the other way. ' _You're good at that.'_

He'd almost reached his designated tent when he noticed a pair of whispering voices – teachers' voices. They belonged to Mr Bandy and Mrs Shaw, who taught maths; he stopped, hidden behind the nearest tree.

"— _haven't been able to contact the school."_

_"Really? How many times did you try?"_

_"I couldn't contact ANY_ _Lillian numbers. The phone lines were all engaged… I think there's been some kind of… problem."_ It was the sort of harsh, hissing whisper that came about whenever somebody was too anxious to keep their voice down.

" _It's probably just a problem with the camp's phone line. We can tell the park ranger to check it tomorrow."_

_"That's still a problem, isn't it? What if something goes wrong?"_

_"It'll be fine, Adrian. If a kid breaks a leg, we'll just make them limp back to civilisation."_

* * *

Four of them were assigned to the tent: Joe, Charles, Preston and Martin. Cary had, thankfully for everyone's sanity, been bundled off with another group (though they could still hear his manic high-pitched giggling, filtering through the canvas). However, the tents themselves were small, which meant that with everyone's backpacks, clothes, sleeping bags and whatever else, there wasn't much room left for the 'them' part. Joe was pressed against the wall but even then Charles' elbow kept digging into his side, and Preston's sleeping bag rustled _very_ loudly whenever he tried to find a more comfortable position.

Joe stared at the ceiling. It was green. Slanted. Very tent-y. The ground was hard against his shoulderblades.

_There's definitely a reason that people invented beds. Yep. Beds and houses, two great inventions._ Their canvas cocoon was definitely less comfortable than he'd hoped.

Martin sat up suddenly. "I'm hungry."

"I'm STARVING," Charles said. His stomach groaned pathetically and he sat up as well, elbowing Joe's ribs on the way.

" _Oof!_

"Whoops! My bad." He patted Joe's shoulder. "We definitely don't have anything eat?"

"Nope," Joe said, for the twentieth time.

"…How do you defeat hunger without anything to eat?"

"Kick it in the nuts," Martin said. "Metaphorically."

"Shoot it in the thermal exhaust port," Preston added.

Charles frowned. "I appreciate the enthusiasm but that doesn't even make sense."

"Die," Joe suggested.

"Real answer?" Preston said. "Stop talking about it. Ignorance is bliss.'"

"But _how_ am I supposed to _ignore_ this giant _hole_ in my _stomach!?_ "

" _You guys! Be quiet!"_ hissed the tent next door.

"You be quiet!"

_"SHHH!"_

"You shhh!"

The conversation continued similarly for another thirty seconds until everyone realised the irony.

"…Maybe we _should_ talk about something else," Charles said. "Like… has anybody started to miss home yet?"

"Charles, it's been like, a day," Joe replied.

"Yeah, I know. I wish I hadn't forgotten my toothbrush though." He looked down, crossing his legs. "After what the teachers were saying, I'm kind of worried about our parents."

"It's probably fine?" Joe murmured. "It's probably fine." _I hope it's fine. There's no reason to worry, not yet. There's millions of reasons the phones might not work. Well… three reasons, maybe._

"I kept meaning to tell them about all this – trying to tell 'em, anyway. My mom found our photos of Cooper while I was packing, but she didn't believe me. Obviously." He made a face.

"Yeah… I, uh, might've also…" Preston looked away, then sighed. "Yeah."

Martin smiled wryly. "Should we talk about being hungry again?"

"Sure," Charles said, moving Preston's bag out of the way. * _munch munch*_

"Why don't we— wait." Preston frowned. "What are you eating?"

"Animal crackers."

"What?! Those are mine!"

"They are?" Charles hid the bright red box guiltily behind his back. "It was just… on the ground! Under your bag! Besides, you said you didn't have anything to eat—"

"Not anymore! I was _saving_ them, I was looking forward to finding the penguin…"

"Penguin?"

"The secret cracker!" Preston hissed. "It's like a Willy Wonka thing, there's a prize. You were eating them and you didn't know that?"

He held out his hand. Charles passed the box with an apologetic shrug, and he zipped it inside his backpack.

"Seriously? You should've said something," Charles muttered.

"Oh well…" Preston sighed again.

"Ugh, it wouldn't have filled me up anyway. Let's just go to sleep," Charles said.

"Is that all you've got to say after stealing my snacks?"

They lay down, attempting to find comfortable positions; the mere _thought_ of eating crackers had somehow made things worse. Preston stretched out, straight as a board. Martin, next to him, clasped his hands behind his head. Charles shuffled his pillow but ended up in the same position he'd started with. Joe tried not to think about delicious crunchy biscuits. Night-time noises resonated through the clearing, owls, deer, insects, the trees switching places with their shadows.

For a couple of minutes, there was nothing but slow, even breathing. Joe imagined an infinite grey wall – a monotonous grey oblivion, as far as the eye could see – in the hope it'd help with sleep. He was having more and more trouble, these days. _Too many nightmares._ _Grey. Grey. Nothing but boring grey…_

Then Charles lifted his head. "Martin, don't you have more space on your side?"

"Nope."

"Oh, okay. Uh… hey."

"Yeah?"

"This is as good a time as any, so… I – I want you to be honest."

"Uh – okay?"

"Are you really… you know… so you and Preston, at Holly's party…"

"Oh, this'll be good," Martin muttered.

"What I mean is, uh… is that the first time you kissed somebody?"

"What?" Martin glared at him. "Dream on. I've told you HEAPS of times about all the girls I've—"

"That's the point! You've told us heaps of stuff, but I haven't actually seen…" Charles trailed off. "What about you Preston?"

"Noooo comment."

Martin shook his head. "Charles, why'd you bring this up?"

"'Cause I'm _curious_ – why are you so hot and bothered about it? That just makes it more suspicious!"

"Because it's a stupid question!"

Charles blushed in the darkness. "I mean… _I've_ never…"

_'Not even Rachel?'_ Joe wanted to ask, but he already knew what the answer would be. _'We're not that serious.' Or 'we aren't like that.'_

"It's overrated," Joe said aloud.

"Well, lucky you," Charles replied.

He felt Charles turn over. (The problem with that was, with four of them next to each other there was an 80% chance of getting a faceful of teenage armpit.)

Suddenly, Martin stood up. "Charles, you're an idiot. I'm going to prove you wrong."

"What?"

"If that's what you really think, then I'm going to the girls' tent right now."

"Huh? Wait, that's a little extreme—"

He threw off his sleeping bag. "I'm going Amy Brennan's tent and she's going to write me a note."

"A note saying she kissed you?" Preston asked. "That's creepy out of ten."

Charles reached out, grabbed the hem of Martin's jacket. "Dude, you'll get in trouble if the teachers catch you, SERIOUS trouble. We're not supposed to go to the girls' tents after dark! Grizzly Gerstmann will—"

"Charles _, don't_." Martin shook him off and ducked through the tent flap, escaping into the night. Before they knew it, he was gone.

In the stunned silence, Charles let out a groan.

"You _really_ need to stop doing that," Joe said. "Antagonising him."

"What, me?"

"Yes, you."

Preston shrugged. "I declare myself not responsible for anything that happens."

* * *

One thing nobody ever mentioned about Violet Evergarden was that she was the world's _loudest_ snorer. Alice stood over her, hands on hips; every five seconds, Violet emitted a rasping, ugly noise that could best be described as *GHGRRK*. She _looked_ peaceful enough, soundly asleep on her foam mattress, but _Jesus_ the snorts were annoying. In Alice's opinion it was a decent impression of a speedboat engine. _TWO speedboat engines._

* _ghkrrrrrk-phewww…_ *

* _krrghk-phewww…_ *

* _ghgrrk!... phew…_ *

Alice sighed. "Now I understand why Phoebe went with another group."

Rachel knelt, facing the opposite wall, hands clasped delicately as she tried to keep calm. "I can't sleep," she said, her voice carefully neutral.

"Should've eaten more of that curry."

"Might've knocked us unconscious."

Alice rubbed her eyes. _Probably._ Despite the all-round awful situation, she had to admire Violet's volume. "Geez, we can't sleep, we can't walk around – I wonder what the others are doing—"

_*GZZZNOORK! Heeeew…*_

Alice twitched. "Rachel, we have to get out of here. We have to."

"Where, though? I don't think walking around at night is a good idea…" She paused, briefly examining Violet's sleeping form. "Do you think she'd stop snoring if I covered her nose and mouth?"

"Nonono! No! Bad idea. Ugh, I can't believe this—"

Suddenly, there was a rustling outside the tent. It sounded like footsteps, plus someone muttering under their breath.

"Who's there?" Alice whispered.

* * *

Joe, Charles and Preston were sitting in their tent, anxiously awaiting Martin's return, when they heard a familiar voice.

_"Hey… are you guys still up?"_

Charles did a double-take. "What're you doing? This is the guys' side!"

_"Let us in!"_ Alice hissed.

"Don't be ridiculous! If Gerstmann finds out we'll all be exPELLED!Go back to your own tent."

" _We can't._ "

Right on cue, a boozy German accent croaked across the night. _"Are zair any rotten applesh out and about? Hmm? Any indeshent schtoodents out zair?..."_

Charles relented. "Alright, alright, hurry up."

Alice ducked through the tent-flap, followed by Rachel, after a quick glance to make sure they hadn't been seen. The boys moved over to the left side of the tent, clearing a bit of space so they could sit in a lopsided circle.

"Sooo…" Joe began.

"…why are _you_ two here?" Charles finished.

"It's Martin," Rachel said. "He's out cold."

"I don't know what happened." Alice folded her arms. "He came into our tent and then… fainted all of a sudden. Right, Rachel?"

"Right."

"There was no way we could sleep with him lying there and if we woke him up, he might've made it awkward. So we left him."

Charles frowned. "What? That makes NO sense. He busted into your tent then suddenly fainted? He was looking for—"

" _LISCHEN UP! Beink insholent and beink indeshent are very different things!"_ The voice was close.

"It's Gerstmann," Preston whispered. "He's right outside!"

Joe could sense the teacher's presence, or possibly just the accompanying cloud of alcohol. Alice and Rachel spun to face the entrance, not daring to hide properly in case they made too much noise. In the moonlight, a patch of slightly deeper shadow tottered across the side of the tent.

_"Hey, are you four in there? Anshwer me!"_

No one was brave enough to at first. Eventually, Joe said, "We're here."

" _Huh? Ahhh, so you're in zair. Is Kaznyk already ashleep?"_

"Yessir! Fast asleep, sir!" Charles barked.

_"Don't get cute, Kaznyk! Shuddup and go back to bed."_ Grizzly Gerstmann yawned, his jaw clicking. " _Ugh, perhapsh I haff had one too many. Schleepy…"_

The teacher moved away, weaving back and forth, off to harass another group.

Charles let out the breath he'd been holding. "There goes a couple of years off my lifespan."

"For real." Alice bit her lip. "That would've been bad."

"Hey – this is _you_ guys' fault—"

"What else were we s'posed to do? Don't answer that. Anyway, we can't leave now – we'll sneak out before the others wake up tomorrow. Is that good enough for you?"

"Hey, I never said you could _stay_. Joe? Preston? Back me up here…" Charles trailed off. "Or don't." There was a tiny spark in his eyes as he realised that perhaps sleeping in a small tent with a pair of girls – one of whom he often had rather embarrassing thoughts about – wouldn't be such a bad time after all. "You OWE us for this," he muttered. "Big time."

"Yeah, yeah, you're a great guy." Alice rolled her eyes. "Now shove over – this is our side of the tent."

They managed to form a barricade with their belongings, clearing enough room for one more person. Still, 'cramped' was an understatement.

It was going to be an awkward night.

* * *

The next morning, no one was keen on getting up.

"Morning guys," called Mr Bandy cheerfully.

Joe managed a feeble wave as he climbed out of their tent. He rolled his shoulders, arms stretched behind him, and felt something _crack_ that really, really shouldn't have. One by one, the others emerged in various stages of dishevelment. Preston's hair stood out in all directions, Charles was vampire-pale, and Martin wore a particularly sulky expression.

"Did I miss something?" Cary asked brightly, taking in the scene. "I _missed_ something."

* * *

An hour later, breakfast – porridge – was not declared a great success.

"Tastes like glue," said Joe.

"Like poo, you mean," said Cary.

"Doesn't taste like anything much," said Preston.

"Boring," said Martin.

"No comment," said Alice. "But let's never have it again."

"Truly disgusting," said Charles.

"I like it, 'specially the raisins," said Rachel.

* * *

Rachel was on her way back from the shower block, hair still wet, when she spotted a boy getting ready to throw a mud-ball at her. He was peeking round the corner with a couple of his friends; she recognised him. His name was Nick, or something.

She stopped. Stared right at him. "Don't."

He must've noticed something in her expression, because he dropped the mud-ball and vanished behind the corner. _Probably off to terrorise somebody else,_ she thought dryly. _Idiot. I'm surprised he's managed to find two friends._

She cast a glance around for Alice but couldn't spy her among the tents. Instead, there was a group of six or seven girls milling around the benches, sitting in the sun as they did their hair and makeup and various other things. Rachel looked straight ahead and made to walk past them… but at the last second, she turned and stopped.

There was a spare seat on the bench.

It'd probably be awkward. Would it? _Yeah, probably. At least two of those girls think I'm weird._ And, yes, sitting and talking (or even just listening) was much more effort than simply going back to her tent. And, yes, doing peoples' hair wasn't the most exciting thing in the world. And yes, the very concept of 'bright and early' felt _grossly_ offensive after her poor night of sleep.

_But you still have to TRY being social, and you need to make an effort if you want them to STOP thinking you're weird. I might be sticking around here for a pretty long time and that means you have to be… better._

_Besides, who cares if it's awkward._

* * *

Joe and the others waited at the edge of the camp, packs well-packed, ready for the morning's task.

"Any news from Cooper?" Charles murmured.

"Nope," Joe replied.

"I feel like we're doing a lot of waiting around for people trying to save the world."

"To be fair, every time we've actually tried to, it hasn't exactly gone great."

"Honestly, I'd be more worried if we _were_ doing the saving," Martin said. "I don't need more pressure on my shoulders – that's why, like, adults exist. What are we supposed to be doing today, anyway?"

"A scavenger hunt, I think," Alice replied. "Around the lake."

Right on cue, Mr Bandy walked past, his balding skull gleaming in the sun. "Right, here's your instructions," he said, holding up a laminated A4 sheet. "I'm going to give these to the group leader – the important thing today is to _listen_ to your leader, because their job is to coordinate you and make sure everything on this list gets done. We're supposed to be fostering effective communication and team skills here. Now, leaders were chosen based on test scores, personality traits and a host of other criteria _that means no arguing_ and your leader today is…" He scanned his list. "…Preston!" Mr Bandy glanced up, concealing his surprise, and handed the instructions to a beaming Preston. He thumped the boy's back, then departed to address the next group.

Charles swallowed, trying to look nonchalant – then gave up. _"You?_ " he asked incredulously.

Preston shrugged. "Me?"

"How were _you_ chosen as leader—" He stopped mid-sentence. "Personality traits my _ass_."

"They probably just wanted to give someone else a shot," Joe said, ever the peacemaker.

"It could've been worse," Martin added. "It could've been Cary."

Cary punched him.

Charles bit his lip, and told himself to forget it. _You're being a dick,_ he thought to himself. _Preston's a good dude. This is one of those times you should shut the hell up… even if you think they should've picked you._

* * *

"It's supposed to be around here," Preston said, stopping in the middle of the trail.

"Is it?" Charles retorted, a bit more venomously than intended. " _I_ wouldn't know."

Preston narrowed his eyes.

Their activity for the morning was a scavenger hunt designed to take them to every corner of the campground. It was a large area – several square miles of hills and forests, plus the zone surrounding the lake – laced with hiking trails and campsites, and although they were currently without teacher supervision, the density of trails and other attractions meant they couldn't go five minutes without seeing another adult. As evidence they were supposed to _draw_ the various landmarks they visited for an unidentified prize at the end. (The teachers assumed there'd be enough skilled artists to make each group's sketches recognisable, which was perhaps a mistake).

"We're looking for the waterfall, right?" Alice said. "The map said we should follow this track."

"But we've been walking for _ages_ ," Cary grumbled.

"Toughen up, it's only been ten minutes. You try sleeping with Violet's loud-ass snoring."

"What say you, great emperor?" Rachel asked, bowing stiffly towards Preston.

"Um – let's just keep going. It's probably this way."

She bowed again. "We follow your command."

Preston glanced at the map, unsure of how to react, then continued, the others following close behind.

Walking around a forest looking for cool stuff wasn't a bad way to spend two hours, and in some ways, it felt _good_ being forced to focus on the simple things – like putting one foot in front of the other, or staring at campfires, or how _not_ to capsize a kayak, or staring at campfires some more. On the other hand, it gave them lots of time in which they weren't doing anything much, which _basically_ gave them lots of time to get annoyed with one another. This – for several reasons – seemed to be happening more and more (perhaps because the fundamental formula of teenage conversation was 40% arguing, 20% whinging, 20% actually being nice and 20% terrible jokes).

Still, there remained a cheery atmosphere as they followed the leafy track. It was barely wide enough for two to walk abreast; the trees were dense here, shading the winding path, and the dancing sunlight made intricate patterns of their feet, the sun pleasantly warm. It was mostly silent apart from the rustle of leaves, the staggered rhythm of their shoes on the hard earth.

_And… flowing water?_

When they rounded the next corner, nobody spoke.

A wide waterfall thundered from a sheer rock precipice thirty yards above. The volume of water was fairly spectacular, flowing with unbridled force, dividing and merging, dividing again as it arced down the cliffs before pounding into the pool below. The pool itself was even prettier – a beautiful blue bowl, most of it calm and tranquil, surrounded by shiny green fronds and soft grasses. Willows and ferns trailed in the water. A nearby rock made a perfect dive platform.

After a quick period of oohing and aahing which could be summarised as 'let's be real, waterfalls are dope', they sat by the edge and started sketching. Pencils scratched against paper, some with assured swiftness, others with tortured 'oh-god-I'm-really-trying' slowness. Joe stuck out his tongue with effort, definitely in the latter group; once he'd tried to draw Lucy for art class and she'd ended up looking like a six-limbed ferret.

Once they'd finished, they compared their handiwork.

"Woah, that's great Alice," Charles said admiringly.

"Thanks." Hers was a more stylized representation, sweeping curves capturing a sense of the waterfall's arc, and spray as it splashed against the rocks.

"Where's yours, Joe?"

"Uh…" He blushed, holding the sketch behind his back. "It's embarrassing."

"It can't be that bad, give it here—"

"Nope!" He ran away behind a fern.

Preston's drawing could best be described as a valiant attempt, while Cary's had a bunch of explosions and helicopters in the background. Martin's, though, was hands-down the best, with delicate shading and smears of mist that mirrored the soaring cliff-face.

"Woah," Charles said. "That's pretty good."

"Thank you," Martin said, taking off his glasses.

"I didn't know you could art."

"You never asked me."

"Not a verb," Preston whispered.

"I could… I could use this for _storyboards_ ," Charles said. He seized Martin's sketch, possibilities igniting behind his eyes. "We could plan stuff out _properly_. With like, action scenes and camera angles and stuff. This is really cool – why didn't you tell me you could draw?"

"'Cause you've never asked me, Charles. I've liked drawing for literally forever… but nobody ever asks!" Martin glared at him. "It's about time it stopped!"

"Oh, okay. I didn't—"

"Everybody just shits on me the entire time! It's always 'Hey Martin, that's a stupid question' or 'Haha, Martin's such a drag' and _Smartin_ this and _Smartin_ that and it's getting really freaking OLD—"

"Uh… are we interrupting?"

They turned around. Another group of seven had come up behind them, obviously intending to visit the waterfall as well. Among them were Violet, Phoebe, Holly and Cameron, as well as Joe's new nemesis, Dan Anderson, AKA Danderson, AKA one of those dudes who turns into a comedian whenever they're around your girlfriend. They stood across the other side of the pool, watching curiously.

"Mind if we join you?" Dan added.

"Not at all," Alice replied.

Joe sighed inwardly. _He'll start telling jokes next. And I bet he's AWESOME at drawing._

"Apparently we're allowed to go swimming in the pool," Violet called out. "If there's a teacher with us."

Cameron shrugged, glancing around. "No teacher. But we could still swim."

* * *

The girls headed off into the bushes to get changed, and the boys quickly slipped into their shorts. Dan owned a tiny, battery-powered portable radio, which he set up on the rocks, mumbling happily to himself.

"Anyone got a preference for station?" he asked. "No clue what's on the radio around here."

"Something _fresh_ ," Cameron said, taking off his shirt.

"Thanks for being specific." He grinned, twisted the dial a few times until a melody appeared out of the static. The signal was – in a word – awful, but that was to be expected in a forest in the middle of nowhere; a crackling beat began hissing from the speakers, filling the atmosphere with a slow rock tune. Joe didn't recognise it and settled for staring glumly at Dan's back.

"What's up with you?" Charles asked quietly.

"It's fine. Everything's… mint." He shook his head. _Stop being paranoid, Joe. Alice even_ told _you to stop being an idiot._ "What's up with you?"

"Eugh. Nothing. Don't deny it, you're jealous of Dan—"

"—I am _not_ jealous—"

"—and I'm jealous of Preston, I guess. It's a crappy feeling."

Joe blinked. "Why do you care about Preston? I mean, he doesn't even want to be 'leader', whatever that means." They both glanced towards Preston. He was sitting on a fallen log, staring intently at the list of places they were supposed to visit while simultaneously checking his watch.

"It's just that…" Charles grimaced. "Joe, I know I'm bossy, or whatever. And, being honest, I like telling people what to do. Organising shit. That _is_ what I do. But according to the teachers, _Preston_ is better at that than me—"

"Charles, that's totally not what they meant."

Then the girls arrived, which momentarily became more important than their insecurities. While the girls were most impressed with Dan's tiny radio, the boys were most impressed with the girls in their bathers: Holly and Phoebe coincidentally had worn matching lilac, Alice had a blue stretchy costume with white trim, and Violet's glitter-spangled outfit was rather stunning. Rachel stood to one side in her sensible black swimming costume. The boys' black and blue swim shorts were uninspiring in comparison, except for Cary's which were an distractingly-vibrant red.

"Bombs away!" Cary yelled, leaping in.

After that there was no hesitation. They jumped in, swimming and splashing in the clear, fresh water.

"Guys! Guys, we've got time for fifteen minutes!" Preston announced. "Then we have to leave."

No one was really paying attention. Martin started freestyling towards the opposite side, while a few of the girls zoomed along underwater, investigating the waterfall. The sun was warm enough to counter the chilliness of the pool, though Joe found himself shivering whenever he stopped moving for too long. And the perfect water wasn't the only attraction; Joe couldn't help noticing that Alice, who usually wasn't particularly show-offy, looked pretty snappy in her blue bathing suit. He tore his gaze away and twisted onto his back, staring at the sky for a moment – framed by trees and the hissing waterfall in the distance – before turning onto his stomach and paddling towards the rocks. Violet was content to sunbathe on the grass, right until Dan splashed her trying to get her attention.

"Dan, you idiot!" she squealed. "Don't be so annoying!"

He shrugged and swam off.

Cameron was showing Charles how to do back-flips from the rock ledge. The red haired boy launched from the ledge like a spring – hung suspended for a moment – then hit the water with all the grace of a confused seal. Joe snorted. _So he ISN'T good at everything._

Joe swam over to them, took a deep breath – the rocks were a good metre and half above the surface – then casually front-flipped off, springing into the water.

When he surfaced, he saw Charles gingerly trying to clamber onto the ledge. "Front flip or back flip?" he asked.

For an answer, Charles cannonballed into the pool, splashing water halfway to the equator and drowning everyone in a ten-yard radius.

"Charles! Rack off!" Cary shouted, spluttering and coughing. "You're too fat! That's not allowed!"

"Sick burn, Cary. Bet you put a lot of thought into that one."

Rachel was next, and surprised them all by facing away from the ledge, her back to the pool, while the others treaded water. She flipped smoothly into a full somersault, executing perfectly.

Alice grinned, looking at Joe – she looked beautiful, with her wet hair slicked back against her head.

Joe smiled. _Maybe life isn't so bad after all._

* * *

"Hey, there's something up here!" Holly called out. She was close to the base of the waterfall, near the cliffs, with a girl, Emma, and a boy, Nick. Joe swam over to her, followed by Alice, Preston and Cary, the rest too far away to notice.

"What is it?" Alice asked.

"There's a chair," Holly said mysteriously. "Come closer."

They swam to the side, where constant clouds of spray billowed against the stone and vegetation. Here, looking up, Joe saw the arc of the waterfall as it left the rocks, soaring _above_ them so they could see the dark grey cliff-face behind. And, just as Holly had said – there was a splotch of red five yards above the water, nestled within a small overhang. It looked like a cheap folding chair.

"Pretty cool secret hideout," Nick said. His voice always reminded Joe of Shaggy from _Scooby-Doo_ ; so did his hair, which he now proceeded to flip across his forehead. "Gnarly."

"Bet we could climb up there," Cary said.

"I dunno…" Emma said worriedly. Emma was one of those mousy people who was perpetually nervous, but followed along all the same.

"There, see it? There's a path up the rocks." Cary pointed, kicking harder to raise himself out of the water. There was, sort of, a path: more a series of vaguely flatter footholds that appeared to draw a neat route to the hideout.

Before they could say anything else, Cary was already pulling himself out of the water. Shrugging, the others followed.

Cary scampered up the rocks, Joe close behind. Water slicked off the smaller boy's back, and Joe was stuck staring at his impossibly red shorts. He felt like a moth drawn to the light, doomed to chase a sun he could never comprehend. _So red. So much red_ …

"Cary, who gave you those shorts?"

"A wizard."

_Sounds about right._ The path was slippery and unpleasantly treacherous, the rocks smoothed by decades of falling water. It doubled back across the cliff-face as it rose, and Joe reached up, grabbing a handhold as Cary made to leap to the next rock.

Cary jumped, and slipped. "Woah!" His feet scrabbled against the stone, falling suddenly – one foot smacked into Joe's shoulder, who barely managed to hold on. Cary somehow found a handhold and clutched it. Joe braced himself, wincing, and looked at Alice directly below. Although the rocks weren't particularly steep, they were still _rocks_ ; it would've been unpleasant to fall the three or four yards to the water.

"Maybe go slower?" Joe said breathlessly.

Cary nodded. "Sure. Sorry dude." He kept climbing, just as quickly as before.

_Yeah, sounds about right._

The rest of the climb passed without incident, and a minute later, they pulled themselves onto a small ledge, five yards above. It was, as they'd predicted, a small cave in the cliff – but actually a little bigger than expected, with a shallow second chamber behind the first, kept eternally damp by the waterfall's spray.

"This _is_ interesting," Preston said.

They looked around. At the front, facing at the curtain of falling water, was the deckchair they'd seen from below (in a grim state up close, covered in brown mold). Behind it was a thigh-high wall of stacked rocks, as if somebody was constructing a tiny fort.

"It's totally a secret hideout," Nick said. "I bet they had an ace time building this."

"Looks abandoned, though," Alice replied. "Nobody's been here for… years, maybe."

Old papers were scattered on the ground, most too deteriorated to read, apart from a laminated schoolbook half-submerged in a puddle. "Brian Goodwin," Holly read. "Grade five. Muskegon Heights." The stone wall had collapsed at the far end, tumbling into the water and next to it, on the ledge, Joe found a plastic green dinosaur roughly the size of his fist. _Cool._ The toy was an ankylosaur, which in Joe's opinion was the secret best dinosaur. _Screw the Tyrannosaurus, ankylosaurs are where it's at._

"So Preston," Emma said, out of the blue, "we heard this rumour…"

"…that you and Martin kissed at Holly's party," Nick said. "Like, full on."

Preston froze.

"Is it true?" Emma asked, weirdly excited.

Clearly, Preston wasn't keen on answering. He blushed, turning away in the shadows.

Holly glanced at him, then winked. "It's SUPER true," she said. "It was technically a dare, but… it was pretty serious, haha."

Nick blinked. "That's, uh… kinda gay," he said, somewhat dopily.

Preston shrugged.

"What was it like?" Emma asked.

"No comment."

"Man, I can't imagine doing that. Kissing a dude," Nick said. "Dude on dude… heh."

Preston turned away, about to leave, but Alice subtly grabbed his wrist. He stopped, giving her a look – trapped, a deer in the headlights. _It'll make it worse if you run_ , she thought. _I've experienced how rumours work. A lie can run around the world before the truth has got its boots on._

"Well, I don't see the problem with it," Preston muttered. "It's just lips. Doesn't matter who they belong to."

Emma giggled. "I guess that's one way to look at it. Did you, uh… did you _like_ it, though? Like, would you do it again— AAH!" She screamed as a bat came screeching from the second chamber, flapping wildly, swooping over her head. Its spindly wings whipped about in the gloom. Emma flailed at it, ducking, and a few seconds later it managed to find its way out through the gap between water and rock.

" _Jesus_ ," Emma groaned. "That gave me a fright."

Apparently, it was enough of a fright to drop the awkward topic.

They moved into the shallow second chamber, from where the bat had emerged. It was relatively cramped, the air cool, the rushing water slightly muffled. Rotting planks and stained sandbags were piled against the left-hand wall, remnants of an abandoned building project.

"We're in its nest," Joe said, pointing to a length of rope that stretched from corner to corner. The floor, too, was encrusted with droppings (which put a sickly dampener on the air quality). On one wall was a chalk mural, faded but visible, and the others went to examine it.

"Joe," Alice said. "Look at this."

She was facing away from him, in the corner. But strangely, her voice had sounded _close_ – almost inside his head.

"Alice?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "Look at this," she said again.

_But her lips hadn't moved_. His eyes widened in shock. So did hers, when she realised what she'd done.

He paused, pulse racing, but there were not more mystery voices. _Did that just happen?_

Alice shrugged imperceptibly. Their eyes locked. It had, genuinely, felt like an external force SHOVING a thought into his consciousness – strange, foreign, instinctive. Reassuring.

_One more thing to watch out for_.

Joe followed her on rubbery legs. In her hands she held a map – a treasure map, hand-drawn long ago. It was a crude landscape of winding rivers, fluffy forests, overlapping triangular hills, with exotic names like 'DOOM CANYON' and 'LAKE OF ACID' written in a kid's clumsy, all-caps script. "It's the campground," Joe realised. "The Lake of Acid is where we went kayaking."

"Yeah. Useful if we want to destroy an alien base." She laughed at his disapproving expression. "Alright, I'll skip the chemistry jokes."

"You'd better." He did his best to look fearsome. "Or there'll be a reaction."

" _Ugh_. Anyway, see here? It says 'WITCH'S HOUSE' where the ranger's office is."

"Maybe whoever drew it didn't like the ranger… who probably didn't like _him_ building forts behind waterfalls."

"Or maybe this Brian kid just had a good imagination."

A dotted trail led to an 'X' on the treasure map, marking 'DIRE BEARTOOTH ISLAND' at the centre of the lake. Idly, Joe wondered if anything was buried there. The skulls and monsters drawn surrounding it were a suitably imposing deterrent. "Good imagination," he echoed.

"Like us." Alice turned to him, suddenly serious. "Joe, we're… special."

"We are?" he asked, somewhat uselessly.

"I just shoved my voice into your head without even meaning to. Of course we're special. I don't know why it had to be us, tied up in all this, but it is, and I'm not sure how that makes me feel." She paused. "Actually, I am. It makes me feel _good_."

The others were out of ear-shot, admiring the chalk drawings. "I do know what you mean – I think," Joe said. "It's like… purpose, right? Constantly having purpose. A goal. Something important to hold onto." _We kinda stumbled into it, but we ARE_ _special, now, which in most cases is just a thought you can grab for comfort – 'I'm_ special _, and that MEANS something'_ _– but in our case is… also freaky and weird and dangerous and constantly exhausting. That's how it works in my head, anyway. And yet, I wouldn't give it up for anything._

"The thing is, Lillian's boring," Alice said. "I didn't understand that before, but it is."

"Sure… I guess?"

"You're not convinced."

"Well…" Joe considered it. "It's Lillian. It just _is_. I agree it's not the most exciting place in the world, but you live there, and our friends live there, and—"

"—and in the big picture, it means nothing. Is that shitty to say? Probably." Alice squinted. "Lillian's boring. I tried to place myself above that… and you know how that went."

"You were bored enough to star in Charles' movie?"

"I was more talking about being – nevermind. But the alien stuff, the sneaking around stuff, even just now, when whatever happened, _happened_ , I… like it."

Joe shrugged helplessly. "Who wouldn't?"

"Because liking it is insane. We've nearly been killed multiple times. The world is going to _end._ I'm just waiting for everything to go wrong."

He stayed quiet, content to let Alice get her thoughts off her chest. Her voice held a steady certainty.

"I bet, right at this moment, everything in Lillian is fine. Relatively. We'll go back on Saturday, after camp, and for a minute, or an hour, it'll be boring. You'll sit in your room and finish your math homework. My dad'll send me to the store to buy milk because it always runs out on the weekends. And then something unexpected'll happen, or Cooper will give us something to do, and I'm going to feel happy about it, because I think I need this, Joe." She stared. "Do you?"

* * *

It turned out they were supposed to climb to the top of the waterfall anyway, using a much more sensible series of pine-log steps. At the top of the cliff, which was bounded by railings, the river widened before plunging into the air – although the waterway wasn't extremely large, it moved rapidly, surging and foaming around a buildup of debris that'd jammed into a natural dam just before the edge.

Preston scrunched his eyes shut, then tore his gaze to the sky. Yet again he'd found himself looking at Martin. Yet again. For the whole _climb_ he'd been looking at Martin, and even when he'd been up the front he'd just imagined Martin looking at _him_. It was maddening.

Undoubtedly, it was because of what Nicholas and Emma had kept asking in the cave. It irritated him, that sort of thing. When he wanted to tell people something, he told them, and if he had nothing to say, they weren't supposed to waltz around making up rumours instead. Everyone was _far_ too obsessed with secrets so they kept needling, and needling, and needling…

Beside him, Martin knelt down, tying his sneakers. _Don't look at him._ His friend's hair was messier than usual, flattened from the swim, gradually lightening as the sun dried it out. A familiar, used-to-be-darker-green long sleeved shirt stretched quite tight across his shoulders, slightly damp, half-tucked into his the back of his jeans. _Don't look at him. He'll notice._ And although Martin always _looked_ nervous – even now – Preston had come to realise that he wasn't, really. Instead, it… well, how could you explain it. It was a kind of certainty, actually, that was born from asking questions, which sometimes sounded stupid but they were still _questions_ , and being curious and wanting to—

"I dare someone to jump off," Cary said suddenly, peering over the railing.

Martin stood up. Preston turned away, his face hot.

"Uh – no thanks," Charles replied.

"Seriously, I dare you. It's not that high. It'd be ace."

Alice shook her head wearily. "Cary, it's thirty yards up. It's too high."

"Yeah, thirty yards. Totally fine. And the water's really deep, I couldn't touch the bottom when I was swimming. You're telling me you don't wanna dive off a waterfall?"

"Yes."

"…you want to, or you don't want to?"

"Cary, nobody wants to," Alice interrupted. "And _neither do you_."

"Whatever. Pussies." He walked to the edge of the river. "I'm gonna do it."

Before anyone could reiterate 'bad idea', he'd whipped off his shirt and waded into the river, the red shorts blinding in the sunlight. Soon, he was waist-deep in swiftly-flowing water, arms raised for balance as the current pulled and tugged.

"This is a bad idea," Joe murmured.

"I'd say irresponsible, but sure," Alice said quietly. "Why is he scared of _nothing_ except aliens that want to eat him?"

They watched from the riverbank. When he was a few yards from the drop, Cary climbed onto one of the half-submerged rocks that lined it like a set of granite teeth. He stood unsteadily, raising himself.

Martin ran to the railing, checking Cary's path. "I don't know… he has to jump pretty far to clear the rocks. But people do cliff jumps all the time, right? That's like, a thing people do."

"And I bet they die from it all the time, too," Charles said grimly. "Cary, you idiot!"

In response, Cary leapt from his rock to the next – barely keeping his balance on the damp, smooth stone – moving towards the centre of the river.

"Stuff this," Charles grumbled. Shirt and all, he waded into the river towards Cary. The water swirled and chopped around him. The others watched apprehensively.

This, at least, had the effect of making Cary stop what he was doing; he perched on one of the rocks like a crow, staring at Charles.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

"Coming to get you," Charles grunted.

"Why?"

A dead branch came dancing along the current, spinning past Charles and plunging over the edge. It was lost in the torrent.

"'Cause you're being stupid."

Cary skipped to the next rock. "No I'm not."

Charles decided to save his breath for swimming. Before long he was several arm-lengths from Cary, who was peering over the waterfall's edge. Charles reached out. Cary just grinned.

The larger boy gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of the rock too, started climbing. _You'll thank me later_ , he thought doggedly. _You'll thank me. I'm gonna say 'I told you so' and you're gonna LIKE IT!_ Fantasies of Cary admitting he was wrong had provided Charles with a lot of motivation over the years, although it remained much more common in his imagination than real life. _This time, though._ This _time it'll be different._

Cary tried to move away, but there weren't many places to go (except over the edge for real, and even he wasn't ready for that). Instead, he shoved Charles back, into the river. Charles lost his grip – slipped – and with one sudden look of panic fell heavily onto the sharp-edged stones before being sucked beneath the surface.

"…Charles?" Cary asked.

Red mixed with the water.

* * *

For Mr Bandy, the most challenging part of his week thus far was forcing a hundred students to sit down for 'self-esteem exercises' they were very uninterested in doing. Still, as a teacher he retained a _slight_ semblance of authority, and eventually everyone was gathered around the campfires, pen and paper in hand. Shadows flickered at the edge of the pale orange light, people close to the fires relishing the warmth, those further away huddling in their jackets.

"I can't be bothered with this," Charles grumbled. "What's the point of making lists and being all nicey-pie to people?"

"Yeah, this sucks," Martin agreed.

Mr Bandy bit back a sharp retort. _It's always the people who need these skills who resist them the most_ , he reminded himself. "Come on, boys, give it a decent shot. You might learn something," he said neutrally. After all, he was supposed to be a role model to these kids; though he would've liked to throw the more whingey and know-it-all ones into a vast vat of orange jelly. "Make a list of all your good points. Then get into pairs and make a list of your partner's good points, and share the lists with each other."

" _Why_?" asked Cary sullenly.

"Because finding positives in ourselves and others is a very important quality to have in our lives." This time, there was an edge in the teacher's tone – the sort of edge that meant 'if you don't shut up and do what you're told I'm going to blast you', so the class settled down and began. Charles and Preston were partners, Rachel worked with Holly, and Martin reluctantly worked with Cary, mainly because he was too slow to choose somebody else. Joe accepted that he was being predictable and chose Alice.

That, at least, went fairly well. The others… not so much.

"Charles, you can't just write 'bad leader'," Preston complained. "It requires evidence."

"Well I didn't see _you_ trying to save Cary from his own idiot-ness."

"Oh, that's it. I'm writing 'speaks English like at orangutan' on yours."

Joe stole a glance at Charles, who was nursing a heavily-bandaged hand. His right palm had been sliced straight down the middle when he'd tried to stop his fall on the jagged rocks; Joe remembered seeing the streak of blood, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Luckily, that had been the worst of it. (Charles, understandably, didn't feel lucky at all, and had moaned and cradled his bleeding hand all the way back to camp). However, the cut was sufficiently deep to keep the hand out of action for several days, and being forced to write with his left while dealing with the pain wasn't doing any favours to Charles' temper.

"We're supposed to be writing down _good_ points," Cary hissed.

"You don't have any," Martin shot back.

Charles whistled. "Want ice for that burn?"

"I'm funny," Cary insisted, leaning over. "Martin, write 'I'm funny'."

"No. Cary, you're— give me my pencil back!"

"Basically, what _I'm_ hearing," Alice said, "is that Cary's essentially suicidal, Charles needs a lie-down, Preston needs a spine, and Martin needs to grow up. That's _enough_." She met their gazes with an unimpressed stare.

"And _you're_ being a bitch," Charles said, going red.

Joe frowned. "Hey, that's—"

"And don't just take her side all the time!" Charles interrupted. "This whole trip has been… argh! We're more likely to be killed by each _other_ than by… than by the 'a' word! Just shut up!"

Bitterly, everyone did.

* * *

He hissed in pain as disinfectant poured over his hand, foaming when it dribbled into the wound. It was like ripping the skin apart all over again; he squeezed his eyes shut to prevent his tears from being noticed. Sitting on a log, at the edge of the campsite, he was fairly sure nobody saw. (Everyone was busy eating dinner, anyway, while he was stuck out here.) The air smelled of oil and charred meat.

Mrs Shaw cooed sympathetically – which was unusual, coming from her. "There there," she said. "Nearly done." She reached for a new bandage.

Obediently, Charles held out his hand, preparing himself. It _throb-throb-throbbed_ with each heartbeat which was, right now, agonisingly quick. The skin was pink, raw, ugly purple around the edges. He looked away.

"Aah!"

The tight wrapping sent another bolt of pain up his forearm, briefly overwhelming him. He jerked his arm back. Thinking about how he'd murder Cary provided a distraction, so he tried to focus on that. It worked, sort of; enough for Mrs Shaw to finish tying the bandage, and for the throbbing pain to die down, just a little.

_…Speak of the freaking devil._

Cary emerged from the darkness, carrying something behind his back. He did, at least, look a bit sorry, lips pressed together in a sympathetic wince. Alice followed, but stayed a couple of steps behind. She kept her gaze distant, one shoe tapping on the dirt.

Charles tried to remember the last time he'd seen Cary look _sorry_. He couldn't.

_Well, that's new. Which is kinda bullshit, when you think about it._

"Uh, hey dude," Cary said uncertainly.

Charles scowled at him. "What do you want."

"I… brought you dinner?" He revealed a plate of sausages and salad. Carefully, he placed it on the log next to Charles.

Charles looked at it, then turned his gaze back to Cary.

His friend seemed to physically shrink in the light – like a dog that knew it'd messed up but was too scared to bolt.

Alice nudged his ribs.

"…and a hot chocolate," Cary added. He held out his other hand. In it was a steaming mug of cocoa.

Charles tried not to stare, but it did smell _real_ good.

"I thought that – with the hand 'n' stuff – you might be busy," Cary said. "Or sick. And it probably hurts. So…" He trailed off. "Here."

Charles was silent for a moment. He slouched, frowning, then squinted at Alice. "Did _you_ put him up to this?"

She shrugged. "Not really. It was mostly his idea… although I did have to tell him to grab salad."

Cary grinned a little. "I told her you don't like tomatoes, but she wouldn't listen."

Alice rolled her eyes, deciding to leave that battle for another day.

Grudgingly, Charles took the hot chocolate and blew on it, holding it close. "He's right. Tomatoes are gross." With his other hand he reached for a knife and fork, but soon realised the bandages would make that painfully impossible. He sighed a long, tired sigh.

"I'm not cutting your food for you. No way," Cary said.

"Somebody has to." Briefly, Charles had an image of a penguin vomiting chewed-up food into its baby's mouth, except Cary was the penguin and he was the baby and it was all very unpleasant. "Actually, I think I can manage with one hand."

"Mine needs two."

" _Does_ it."

Cary's grin grew wider.

Then, Alice nudged him again.

"What? Oh. Um…" He winced. "Sorry. About before. I was being stupid. You were being nice. I shouldn't have pushed you."

Charles did his best to maintain a stony expression. "Say that again."

"…I was being stupid. Sorry. I dunno. Sometimes it just happens."

"…Alright."

There was a pause. Distant laughter echoed across the campsite.

"Gimme some skin," Cary said. He knelt, palm outstretched.

"I'm not giving you a high five."

"Why? _Gimme some skin._ " He leaned closer, smiling like a gremlin.

"Eugh. Fine." Charles raised his hand, slapped it down, and didn't realise until too late he'd used the wrong one. "HOLY _SHIT_ BALLS!"

* * *

Their other activities were thankfully less confrontational. After dinner was charades which, memorably, forced Preston to act out a Wavy Tube Man. Following that were trust exercises – the usual 'close your eyes and fall backwards and hope that someone catches you' deal – which went well, with several notable exceptions.

"Now make a list of all the things you'd like to achieve in your life. After all, a goal is just a dream with a deadline on it," Mr Bandy quoted. "Think big here. What's your _highest_ aspiration?"

_To be safe_ , thought Rachel.

_Be a rocket scientist_ , thought Preston.

_Become the best movie director in the entire universe_ , thought Charles.

_To draw words in the sky_ , thought Cary. _And win the Freestyle BMX World Championship._

_Hang out in Paris on the Eiffel Tower with a girl I like_ , thought Martin.

_Do fun stuff and be happy_ , thought Joe.

_Give me everything_ , thought Alice.

* * *

To Charles, Mrs Shaw looked worried. But he couldn't catch enough of the teachers' whispered conversations to understand exactly what was wrong.

"— _if there's any issues with calling home_ —"

"— _just an automatic voicemail on all the numbers, like a_ —"

"— _it's nothing… there's no reason to be paranoid_ —"

"— _have to be worried. The rangers haven't replied either. No contact. Something's not_ —"

"— _priority is the kids, just deal with it when_ —"

He shook his head and walked away, heading back to the tents.

On the way, he passed Rachel. She'd just come back from brushing her teeth and they stopped at the same time, a slightly awkward distance apart. Him, and her, with hair the colour of midnight, lit like lanterns.

"You OK?" she asked.

"Sure. I'm fine. It's not that bad." He flexed his fingers, feeling a sharp twinge.

"Are you _sure_ you're OK?"

"Yeah, totally. I mean, I'd obviously prefer it if the whole thing never happened, but it's basically fine. They probably won't need to chop it off."

She met his gaze. "You don't have to pretend, you know."

"I…" He shrugged. "I _am_ fine. Pissed off, but fine."

"Then say that." She smiled. "Compared to Japanese, English has such a variety of swearwords. Should use them when you need to. I'm going to bed, d'you need anything?"

"Umm…" Charles blushed. There were several things he _could've_ said, but he didn't, because that wasn't how things worked. "Unless you've got a spare toothbrush, I'm good."

"Borrow mine. Just wash it afterwards."

"Really? I feel like that's not hygienic—"

"We're both humans - we've got the same germs." She passed him the toothbrush. "Mostly. See you in the morning. Or if Violet starts snoring again, see you in an hour."

* * *

The next morning they left the trails behind, striking out into the forest. Their first task, as part of a group of twenty students (and two teachers), was to navigate to a distinctive limestone plateau five miles to the north. Although it would've been a piece of cake to find out in the open, the thick canopy forced them to rely on maps, compasses or the occasional open clearing with which to catch a distant view.

But pushing through the forest was swiftly becoming hard work. The terrain was getting more and more challenging, dense brush replacing sparser vegetation farther from the campsite. Twigs, leaves and branches continually barred their path, all at the perfect height to slap at their faces.

Preston forged ahead in the lead.

"Are you sure we're going in the right direction?" Rachel asked tentatively.

"According to the map and compass, we should be almost there," Preston called back, equally tentatively. "Well, actually, we should've been there a while ago."

They plodded onwards, rather gloomily. Rachel gazed skyward. Even though her mother could be a pain sometimes – or a _lot_ of the time – a nice foot-rub and chat over a cup of hot tea in their messy, half-unpacked house would be kind of nice right now. The vegetation grew thicker every hundred yards, to the point where Preston wished he owned a lightsaber, or at the very least a bulldozer.

"How do you defeat a forest?" Charles asked, somewhere behind them.

"Kick it in the balls," Cary said.

"Shoot it in the thermal exhaust port," Preston grumbled.

"Napalm," Joe said. "Lots of napalm."

* * *

They stopped for lunch on a small ridge, the limestone plateau visible in the distance. Stained white rocks thrust upward through the pines.

"We're at this spot on the map," Cameron said, pointing at a tight confluence of contour lines which presumably represented the ridge. "The mountain's over there. So we need to follow a heading of… fifteen degrees?"

"That's what I thought," Preston said, "but visually, a straight line from here to the plateau is northwest, not northeast. Which doesn't make sense."

Rachel frowned. "We also need to find a bridge on the way, otherwise we'll be stuck on the wrong side of the river."

While the more enthusiastic team members discussed their route, the hungrier ones prepared lunch. Even if a five-mile hike hadn't _sounded_ challenging, needing to bash your way through ninety percent untamed forest had slowed progress significantly. And in their haste to look cool, calm and at home in the wild, no one had yet noticed that what they'd assumed was the ridge on the map was in actual fact a valley, which partially explained why nobody could figure out where the heck they were. The teachers sat on a log, watching the proceedings with interest.

Joe was munching on a peanut butter and honey sandwich when something in his backpack vibrated. He paused mid-chew.

"Is that Cooper?" Charles whispered.

Joe nodded.

"Man, we should all get wireless communicators. Like phones, but… _mobile_ phones."

Joe rummaged through his backpack until he found the silver disk, was immediately _assaulted_ by a blast of mental energy. He sank to his knees but managed to keep hold of the disk; it was like a chasm had been levered open in his brain and now _stuff_ was rushing in, filling it with raw, indistinct emotion, like those videos of dams overflowing with huge white jets of water flooding down the spillway. Distantly, he thought, _I hope my brain has a spillway._

[JOE-HUMAN!] /panic

He gritted his teeth. [I'm here. Calm down.]

[URGENT! NO CALM! FRIEND IN DANGER.]

[Which friend – your friend? Are your friends here?]

[BEST FRIEND! ARRIVED! T'CHORAK WERE WAITING, ATTACKED HER. DANGER!] There was a distinct tone change as Cooper seemed to gather himself, the emotional torrent lessening to an emphatic stream. [T'chorak were lying in wait in orbit, fired missiles on her as she arrived. She survives but her ship has been breached] /controlled. [Recall my own arrival in years past. Similar. Interesting coincidences… irrelevant] /ignore. [She is a friend! You must help her!]

Joe closed his eyes worriedly. [Help her? How are we supposed to—]

[I ordered her to fly to your location. Safer. She will be there soon.]

[ _Our_ location?!]

[The lake. I see a lake in your mind. She will be there soon] /pleading. [I am travelling to you also. You must HELP HER!]

[Okay! Okay. This won't be easy, but – I'll see what we can do…]

[Thank you, Joe-human. Go swiftly. Many minds are gathering.]

The connection closed.

"What's up?" Charles asked, concerned.

Joe relayed Cooper's message.

"Well that sounds bad," he said flatly. He glanced at the twenty other students, and more importantly, the two supervising teachers. "It's not like we can just… leave, right? They'll never let us sneak away."

"Yeah."

"That's a problem."

Joe thought about it. "But if we do go, can they actually stop us? If we just _run_ , right now, into the forest – it's only half a mile to the lake. We could make it."

"Joe, it's broad daylight and there's people around, it's not like the other times—"

"I know, I know, I don't like it either. But Cooper sounded super freaked out and if he's scared it must be pretty bad."

"We'll get in trouble."

"Since when has that stopped us?"

Charles gave him a wry smile, his agreement never in doubt. "Maybe they'll forgive us once we show them the crashed alien spaceship."

* * *

Sneaking into the bush had given them a hundred-yard head start. Now it was a sprint. Charles hated sprints.

_Shitshitshitshitshit,_ Charles thought. _Shitshitshitshit-TREE!-shit._

They ran through the forest towards the lake, finding the path of least resistance through the thick, dark pine trees. Downhill, always downhill. Sounds of pursuit surged from the gloom. Hard to tell if they were getting closer or farther, but the voices sounded _very_ angry. Joe did his best to ignore them, instead concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and trying not to run smack-bang into a tree. A year ago he never would've considered actively disobeying a teacher, yet here he was, urging his friends to do exactly that. They hadn't argued. For that, he was grateful. _And e_ _veryone else will understand after they see. I don't think 'aliens' are going to stay a secret much longer._

_Sorta impressive that we managed this long._

He followed Cary around a rotting tree trunk, Alice beside him. He was starting to get puffed. Charles already was, face hot, chest tight. Preston's 'half a mile to the lake' felt much longer, navigation apparently not his strong suit. Martin tripped, then recovered, spitting out a mouthful of leaves. People often repeated the same bullcrap about how these situations were s'posed made you feel alive, how panic and stress and fear and instinct were forges that minted you into being properly human.

Mostly, it seemed to mean they had to do a lot of running.

_Probably good exercise._

Two weary minutes later – still ahead of the pack – the five boys and two girls emerged from the treeline onto a beach of rounded pebbles. The lake's expanse stretched endlessly before them, deep blue bordered by viridian green, calm waters lapping at the steel-grey shore. Its central island was an emerald splotch in the distance, backed by low hills. Above, the sun shone steadily, highlighting strands of cirrus cloud.

Joe shielded his eyes, squinting into the sky.

There were, conspicuously, no spaceships flying around. He glanced behind him but the forest was empty. For how much longer he didn't know. Voices getting closer. He sucked down a half dozen breaths, hands on hips, wondering where to go next.

He was about to try contacting Cooper again when a silver streak sparkled along the horizon. It arrowed towards them, trailing puffs of smoke and flame, fast, _real_ fast, fast enough that within seconds it was over the lake, the water beneath it ripped upward and asunder by the pure violence of its wake. It was a ship – flat, crescent-shaped – silvery filaments stretching from its wings. The clouds whorled around it. And then Joe saw that it wasn't one ship, but two – two that'd apparently _crashed_ into each other – the silver crescent pieced and suckered by a bulbous, black craft. Air shimmered. Both ships were coming in far too steeply, out of control, the kind of descent that'd make a 747 say its prayers. Similar size.

"They're going to crash," Alice murmured.

Just when it seemed like they would, a bank of thrusters fired on the silver ship – an emergency reaction – and blue jets of energy shoved against the water, slowing it, not slowing it enough. The pair of ships _skipped_ from the water's surface like a stone. A sonic boom whipped over them a moment later. Joe flinched. Cary cheered. The tangled ships skipped once, twice, three times – built-up speed making the kilotons spin like feathers, screeching, wobbling, a world-ending _whirr._

Friction and gravity suddenly remembered to show up, forcing the ships to a halt. They rotated one last time, raising an almighty vertical spray, before burrowing wings-first into the muddy lakebed fifty yards from shore.

Fifty yards from _them._

"I guess Cooper wasn't kidding when he said they'd come to us," Charles said.

* * *

" _This one time, at band camp…"_

_\- American Pie_

* * *

The ships settled into the lakebed with crushing inevitability. Clouds of steam rose from their swiftly-cooling hulls, sent swirling aside by the six-foot waves rippling from the impact point.

The silver ship was low in the water, the twin points of its crescent-shaped hull thrust into the mud. It was tilted ass-up, the engines at its rear spewing bursts of blue plasma. This meant the smaller black ship was suspended almost entirely above the lake, growing out of the silver like a particularly nasty blister. ('Small' being a relative term – the black ship was fifty metres in length, the other more than twice that size).

The silver vessel had sustained heavy damage. Black scars streaked along its hull, sparking and hissing, and the ship was so _thin_ Joe was surprised it hadn't snapped. _Imagine if you stretched Cary into a NBA player and then asked Charles to tackle him (…and also sucker onto him with a bunch of black tentacles)._

The first waves rolled against the beach, showering them in spray.

They stepped back.

"So what we do?" Alice asked.

Joe nearly asked if anyone had brought a camera before realising they'd left their bags on the ridge. _That decision_ totally _won't come back to haunt us._ No convenient hatches popped open as they watched; no stranded aliens were waving from the windows (not that the ships had windows in the first place). They were BIG, though, the size of navy destroyers, in a strangely real way for something that'd just crashed from outer space.

"We go in," Charles said firmly. "Cooper told us that his friend's in trouble. We need to find 'em."

"Wait," Martin interrupted. "First of all, how exactly do _WE_ help an injured giant alien spider-crab? And second—"

"We'll figure it out," Charles said.

At this point, 'we'll figure it out' felt like the chorus to a song that everyone hated.

Joe remembered his dad's warning, too. "Are we being stupid?" he wondered aloud.

"We've already _been_ stupid," Preston replied. "At this point we're simply choosing to continue with our current level of stupidity, which is… better? Is it? Actually no that's probably worse."

"Yeah, alright." Martin sighed.

"Last one in has to smell my farts," Cary said. _"And_ I had baked beans this morning."

"Dude! You did _not_ just—"

They gritted their teeth and charged into the lake, the waves and the water quickly swelling up to their waists. It was shallow enough to wade the whole way but the choppy water didn't make it easy to stay dry. Immediately Joe felt his clothes start to drag, shoes filling with mud. _Swimming with clothes: bad idea_. _Wet shoes and jeans: WORSE idea._ He pushed himself forwards as the water deepened, waves slapping and foaming, algae bobbing on the surface. The ships loomed at a demented tilt, like a Disneyland attraction brought to life. There was a smell in the air, too, like welding fumes or seared steak – the scent of something beaming in from _very_ far away.

"Wait. How do we know which ship it is?" Martin asked.

"Umm…" Alice pointed. "The silver one, right?"

"Yeah, but we can't just assume— Joe, did Cooper tell you which ship?"

"No… he didn't mention there'd be two."

"Then Martin's right," Charles said, "we should check both. Let's split up."

"No, that's a terrible idea!" Preston retorted. "Like, universally terrible! Have you paid attention during _any_ movies? Splitting up has never, EVER been a good idea—"

* * *

Joe, Cary, Martin and Preston approached the silver ship. Its sheer size was rapidly becoming disturbing: the ends of the crescent lay half a football field to either side, the slightly fatter central section floating low on the water. Even though it was comparatively thin the hull itself was nearly ten metres thick, double the height of a house, with a flattened cross-section reminiscent of a pancake.

_You could fit our entire school inside and there'd still be room for Todd's ego._

The silver surface remained smooth up close. It appeared to be made up of irregularly-shaped panels, like jigsaw pieces, separated by finger-wide ridges and valleys. Occasionally the surface would… animate a little, the pieces rippling, almost breathing. _Or trying to breathe,_ Joe thought. _Like a dying animal._

They moved into the shadow of the hull, waves lapping at its exterior. The water here was muddy, slimy, full of debris from the impact.

"Gross," Cary muttered.

"Door," Preston replied.

"What?"

"We need a door."

"Of course we need a door, dummy, but I can't see one. Can you see one?"

"Not yet. Gross?"

"Umm…"

"You said gross."

"Oh yeah, I meant the water. It kinda stinks."

The ship's engines were still firing, emitting a harsh, breathy _whoof_ that made the water dance – it looked like a vast barbecue grill, wreathed in blue energy. _Better not get much closer._ The hull stretched to the left and right.

"Yes," Preston said.

"Yes?" Cary asked.

"I see one."

"See what?"

"A door."

"Where?"

"There.

"…where?"

"THERE!"

"You guys need to work on your communication," Joe murmured.

It was a relatively featureless section of metal that formed a perfect circle, conspicuously interrupting the surrounding slivers of hull. The ship's tilt meant it was above them in the water, within arm's reach. There didn't appear to be any handles, though. Or buttons. Or switches. Or anything.

Joe reached up to touch it, and drew back when pale light flickered on the metal, following his movements. _Familiar. That's promising._

"So… I didn't take the 'alien door puzzles' class this semester," Cary said.

"If it were up to you, you wouldn't take any classes," Martin replied.

"Guilty."

The ship groaned, shifting in the mud and for a second Joe thought they'd all be pancaked before it _crunched_ to a stop a few inches lower.

"Anyone got any bright ideas? Preferably fast ones?" he asked.

Preston bit his lip. "Cary, do you have any dynamite?

"Nah, I didn't bring it. You're looking at the new, _responsible_ Cary."

"I don't like the new responsible Cary."

"Neither do I!"

Martin touched his finger to the ship. "Guys, let me try something." Carefully, he traced a shape: a small, glowing infinity symbol.

With a melodic tone, metal petals swung inward, the door opening to reveal a dark interior. The hole was, roughly, Cooper-sized.

"How did you _do_ that?" Preston breathed.

Martin shrugged. "Just a hunch."

* * *

It didn't take Alice, Charles and Rachel long to find where the two ships had collided (it was, after all, pretty obvious). The black spaceship's nose had rammed through the silver a third of the way along the crescent, where parts of both had crumpled away.

"You know pineapples?" Rachel asked.

"Um… yeah," Charles replied.

"This ship reminds me of a pineapple."

Alice tilted her head. "Or a strawberry that's been left in the sun for a week."

Either way, it had a fat, bulbous body and nose, with a tangled collection of protuberances at the rear. The hull was covered in rolling, spiralling patterns, and its entire surface was concealed beneath what appeared to be _fur_ – similar to the floor of the T'chorak cavern. A dozen slick black tentacles were attached to the silver ship like grappling hooks and despite the crash they remained taut, anchoring the ships together.

Staring upwards, Rachel suddenly felt lightheaded.

"Hmm," she murmured.

A lot was contained within her 'hmm', like 'that there is an alien spaceship' and 'that there is ANOTHER alien spaceship' and 'are we the first people in history to do this?' and 'wow we ARE doing this', plus a general undercurrent of 'oh my gosh aliens'. Usually she tried to quash it when her thoughts started bubbling; this time, she felt like making an exception.

"Hmm," she said again.

Charles glanced at her, his eyes flinty with determination. "I reckon we can climb inside."

"We have to be careful though," Alice said. " _Super_ careful. We don't have a clue what's in there, and black colour schemes are usually reserved for bad guys… like those Stormtroopers from Star Wars."

Charles gave her a look. "Like Darth Vader. The Stormtroopers have white armour."

"Ugh, _Charles_.You do realise I pretend not to know anything about Star Wars just to piss you off, right?"

"…you do?"

"And I'll keep doing it as long as it keeps working."

The climb was easy with lots of handholds, like scaling a furry hill, though they had to skirt around a few bubbles of energy leaking from the wounded hull. It looked like electricity. It probably wasn't.

Alice reached the hole first and poked her head through. "It's clear." She slithered over the edge and disappeared inside.

Rachel psyched herself up, unsure whether to suppress or amplify her excitement.

_Stuff it. Be excited._ She hid a grin.

Charles squeezed her shoulder. "Still regret being friends with us?"

Her grin broadened. "I never did."

He locked his hands together and gave her a boost through the opening.

And suddenly, the world was… different. Quieter. Darker. More intimate.

It took Rachel's eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light.

She was on a ledge.

And she was _floating_. Panic bubbled inside her. She reached for something – anything – to hold onto, wobbling in mid-air, until she found Alice's arm and caught it with her fingers.

"There's – there's no gravity," she hissed.

"Apparently not," Alice replied, concealing her surprise.

Rachel swallowed, dizzy, toes curling as her legs swung freely.

"What the _eff!_ " Charles screamed behind them. He spun slowly end-over-end, his jacket caught on the edge of the hole, jerking him to an upside-down stop. "Why are we floating! AAAAAAH!"

Alice reached into her pocket and brought out a pencil.

She let it go.

The pencil floated in front of them.

Rachel stared at it, a sense of wrongness building quickly in her mind.

And Alice, strangely, began to laugh. It was like one of those dodgy special effects in a movie, but there were no wires – it was happening, right in front of their eyes and she touched the pencil and watched it spin, round and round and round in the gloom.

"Wow," Rachel said. " _Wow_."

"I don't know what I was expecting," Alice said, "but it wasn't… this. It _definitely_ wasn't this." She waved, and the motion sent her tilting to the side. "Uh oh—"

Rachel pulled her back to the ledge. "You good?"

"Good. Thanks."

"Yes, okay, this is a hundred percent gnarly but I don't think my stomach agrees," Charles said. "My stomach is flat-out _arguing_ with the rest of me _._ This doesn't feel right."

_What_ does _it feel like, then?_ Rachel wondered. _It's not like falling, or being on a rollercoaster… I guess it's a bit like floating underwater, except there's no water. And there's no up or down. And even the slightest movement makes you zoom around like a ping-pong ball._ She took a couple of breaths – arms held out, reflexively balancing on nothing – and kicked off the ledge, towards a platform above them, before her brain could tell her that she'd fall—

And she flew.

She soared.

_I feel so_ light.

… _and sick._ She hit the platform a little too fast and swung into it, holding on for dear life. Alice followed a moment later, then Charles, contorting himself into a kind of reverse handstand.

"Okay," he said, panting. "So no gravity. No. Big. Deal. Eat your heart out, Neil Armstrong."

"I'm _really_ having to resist flailing around like an idiot," Alice said. She swallowed, with that kind of grim determination that meant 'I'm trying _real_ hard not to vomit right now'. "Where are we?"

Rachel forced herself to let go of the platform and looked around, hair fanning out behind her. _Breathe. You're safe. Unless gravity suddenly returns, then you're human pancake._

_Maybe it's better to hold on._

The chamber surrounding them was mostly dark, but for occasional globes of blood-red light illuminating distant corners. Although they couldn't see very far it gave the _impression_ of bigness: the shadows revealed many more platforms like the one they were clutching now, arranged to make the chamber was much taller than it was wide. The red light lent it a vaguely threatening air, in a way that made Rachel wish she had eyes in the back of her head.

"Reminds me of a treehouse," Charles said. "With the platforms and stuff."

"Or a cloud-house," Alice replied.

The platforms did feel a little like clouds: airy but solid, in a very strange way. Suddenly, Rachel had to fight a bout of vertigo. "What's this place… for?" she asked.

"Cargo?" Alice suggested. "Or passengers?"

"There's probably a bunch of stuff we can't see," Charles said, "like… controls, or…" He trailed off. "Who knows, really. Keep going up?"

They pushed off with their feet, more lightly this time, except for Charles who smacked straight into a platform and received a bruised forehead for his trouble. They passed through bunches of strange tubing that led _everywhere_ , like capillaries, their surfaces slick with moisture, but despite that the ship had the feel of something _dormant_ – oppressively silent except for a thin, low hum that Rachel wasn't even sure existed.

A single door lay at the chamber's peak, formed a softer substance that _slithered_ apart as they approached.

"Ugh," Charles said reflexively.

Alice raised a finger to her lips.

Rachel nodded. Every second they went without encountering a monster – _more of those creepy lizards, or worse_ – made her feel a little safer, but how long could that realistically last? _A ship this big surely_ _needs pilots. A crew. Something…_

Cautiously, she poked her head through the portal. The next room was, once again, empty. She gave the all clear and pushed upward – except it went wrong and the entire world turned upside down as she spun, trying to steady herself, vomit bubbling in her throat, one hand catching the wall and sending her tumbling the other way helplessly. There wasn't any up or down, not anymore, she couldn't even see Alice or—

She hooked a finger into the hood of Charles jacket he grabbed her, suspended, soaring gently towards the centre of the room.

"It's cool, it's cool. I've got you."

"Thank you." She closed her eyes against his shoulder, mentally preparing herself to readjust to a new direction. _When I woke up this morning I was worrying about some idiot throwing mud at me – now we're basically astronauts._

"Interesting place," Alice said behind them.

The chamber was ten metres in diameter, egg-shaped, and plastering every surface were jagged, triangular mirrors. Their reflections stared back at them from every conceivable angle, paralleling each other to infinity, a circus' mirror-maze amplified a thousand-fold. Her brain hurt. _That's why I was so disoriented._ The physical layout felt wrong, too, in a 'this wasn't built for humans' way, and she imagined a T'chorak floating where they were, infinite tentacles reflected from the walls.

And then they heard a voice.

A human voice, crying out from the dark depths of the ship.

" _Hey, is anyone there! HELP ME!_ "

* * *

The silver ship hadn't been built for humans either. So far all they'd seen was tunnels – winding tunnels, like waterslides for elephants, all cast from the same white-with-a-hint-of-blue material – and, infuriatingly, a whole lotta locked doors. Martin kept trying his 'infinity' trick but wasn't having much luck.

"So you _saw_ that symbol before?" Cary asked.

"Yeah. Remember when we broke into the army base?" Martin said.

"Uh-huh."

"And we found the coordinates of those twelve previous 'incidents' or whatever?"

"Uh-huh."

They paused for a moment to hike a particularly steep section, panting and scrabbling on the plastic. Wet shoes didn't help. _These tunnels feel like the cemetery_ , Joe thought. _Bet this would be easier if I was, say, a huge six-legged alien._

"Okay," Martin continued, "so the coordinates made an infinity symbol if you joined 'em together on a map. And the same symbol shows up much more in those research documents… so I thought it might be important. It was mostly luck."

"Good work, though," Preston said.

"Thanks."

They passed another enormous locked door, three times as tall as they were. The ship was astonishing in subtler ways, too: the puzzle-like way in which it was constructed, the hermetic seals where panels fit together, the thin grooves that created intricate, dizzying patterns when parts of it shifted and changed to reveal the familiar pale cubes from which it was formed. _I never got to see the inside of Cooper's ship_ , Joe thought. _It was smaller, but I wonder if it was this incredible._

_Probably._

_This is crazy._

_Should we be doing this?_

_Should we be here, exploring a place in which we don't know how anything works, putting ourselves in danger because we're friends-slash-minions of an alien who talks with his mind? I mean, we're trying to save the world, sure, but I don't know if this_ exact _situation is totally related—_

Suddenly, a sheet of blue light came pulsing down the tunnel. It approached swiftly, flickering and building and rolling over itself, washing over them like a wave – a wave of the bluest sky they'd ever seen – before disappearing around the corner. Joe felt… disoriented, for a second. He staggered, focusing on the floor till the dizziness passed.

"Weird," Martin said. "What was that?"

"Just… light, right?" Joe stared at his hand, turning it over. "Have we come this way already?" It was hard to tell one passage from another but something about the slope was ringing bells in Joe's brain. _No footprints, though. If we'd come this way, we'd have left footprints._

The tunnel wound to the left, curving back before splitting into three legs.

"Wait a second," Cary said. "If that infinity thing totally _is_ a thing, then all those incidents must've been caused by Cooper and his dudes. So… why the heck would they visit Earth twelve times? Like, I'd probably be bored visiting _Disneyland_ twelve times. Why hasn't Cooper mentioned it?"

"Good question," Preston said, "we should probably ask him. Careful! There's a gap."

Although the ship had appeared relatively undamaged from outside, the inside was in a much worse state. Treacherous holes opened and closed without warning, and some hallways had been completely crushed into geometric shale. The lighting – which imitated the hazy twilight of an overcast evening, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once – flickered and faded, often leaving them in complete darkness for a few worrying seconds. They reached another blocked tunnel and had to climb to the next level, using a thin, beam-like structure.

The biggest question was still where to _look_ for the pilot. _There must be a control room or something,_ Joe thought. _Which would be at the front of the ship. Or maybe in the middle?_

Another wave of blue light rushed down the passage. They were ready for it this time and crouched down. Joe felt the same stomach-churning _colourness_ as it washed over them – and saw the floor underneath them change _._

He looked up.

They were in a different tunnel.

The other one had curved to the left. This one curved to the right.

"Did the ship just rearrange itself?" Martin asked. "Or…"

"…or did we just teleport?" Joe finished.

"I do not like either one of those answers," Preston muttered.

"Holy shit," Cary said. "I bet we freakin' _teleported._ "

It was a distinctly unpleasant feeling – to be in one place, then instantly find yourself in another – _especially_ when you weren't in control of the whole process.

"Is that what the light's for?" Cary asked. "Moving stuff?"

Joe shrugged helplessly. "Sure."

"I don't wanna be stuff."

" _I_ don't want to be teleported into a wall," Preston said.

They considered this for a second.

Martin nodded. "Let's, uh… let's keep moving."

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic," Preston repeated under his breath. "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Any sufficiently advanced…"

They moved quickly through the featureless white caverns, the floors scattered with cubic fragments, moving past blockages whenever they could, finding alternate routes when they couldn't. Locked doors _blooped_ sadly at them, the lighting never quite bright enough to be comfortable.

Another blue wave traced its path through the ship.

Joe closed his eyes. Felt the air change as they shifted. Martin almost puked the third time around but held it together with a wince.

"Out of interest, what did you have for breakfast?" Preston asked.

"Canned spaghetti," Martin said. "Why?"

"Oh, I'm just preparing myself."

"For…"

"For potentially seeing the insides of your stomach, which I now know includes half-digested canned spaghetti."

"Really, dude? Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Martin, you should realise by now that my conclusions are always based upon very solid statistical evidence."

"Hey, are we trapped?" Cary interrupted. "I feel like we're trapped."

"Why's that?" Joe asked.

"We still have NO idea where we are except it's like a hundred times worse because we keep getting moved to new places where have no idea either."

"We're still in the ship… and the ship's not that big. I mean, it's _big_ , but it's not city-sized."

" _Are w_ e in the ship?" Cary asked pointedly. "There's no way to tell! We could be in SPACE!"

"I guess," Joe said. "Um… could we?"

"Eh, probably not," Preston said. "Otherwise there'd be no gravity."

The cubes hissed, shifting before them, revealing a steep drop to the pale room below. One after the other they slid nervously through the gap, skidding on the tunnel walls. And suddenly, they saw sunlight – blinding _sunlight,_ falling through a tear in the hull, revealing the outside world.

They ran to it and peered through.

"See?" Preston said. "Not in space."

It took a second for the geography to piece itself together in Joe's head but he realised they were looking back towards the beach where they'd started, the tips of the ship's crescent barely visible to either side. Which was good, because it meant they were roughly in the centre of it. _Time to hope a few of these doors start opening._

A powerful _thrumming_ noise also filtered through the gap – louder – louder – louder – and suddenly a _troop helicopter_ came buzzing over the wrecks, flying low across the lake. Then another helicopter. Then another. The choppers were fat, angular, painted featureless grey, flying in tight formation. They ignored the ships and swept towards the forest, coming to an abrupt stop above the pine trees roughly half-way up the ridge.

"Lemme see, lemme see," Cary hissed, pushing in front. Joe stood on his tip toes.

"Looks like the army," Martin said.

Joe nodded. _How'd they get here so fast?_

"This is bad," Preston said. "Very bad. We have zero time. Less than zero time. _Negative_ time."

There was a crowd of people on the beach as well, milling about in confusion, which Joe could've sworn was the camp group. _This got tricky WAY faster than I expected._

They moved on, a little quicker.

"I hear fire," Cary said, barely ten metres further.

"I _feel_ fire," Cary said, ten metres further than that.

And ten metres past _that_ , they saw fire.

It was a pair of doors, one on either side of the tunnel, the left-hand door wide open to reveal the hiss of bright blue flame. It looked like the results of an out-of-control chemistry experiment, licking into the tunnel.

"I'm not an expert," Martin said cautiously, "but fire isn't usually blue. Right?"

Cary shrugged. "Blue fireworks are rare, but you can get 'em – it's a special type of copper. And gas fires go blue if they're hot enough."

They approached, with caution.

The heat radiated with physical force and they could barely get close enough to squint through the open door, past the blinding brightness and the shimmering blue, but – it looked like a wide, silvery cavern, with balls of pure aquamarine flame roiling and roaring in the distance. _We saw that from outside,_ Joe realised. _It's the engine room._ And, piercing the walls in a dozen places, were thick black tentacle-ropes. They'd burrowed all the way from the enemy ship and almost seemed to be… encouraging the fire? Smooth blue flames were climbing the—

Suddenly, the door slammed shut.

"Aww," Cary said, in the unexpected silence.

"How is _any_ of this flammable?" Martin asked. "It's not wood. Or plastic. Or—"

"I don't think it's normal fire," Joe said, wiping the sweat from his face. "It looked like it was… moving on purpose?"

"Oh, it's definitely not normal fire," Cary said. "Looks _way_ hotter. Way way hotter."

"We should avoid getting caught in it, whatever it is," Preston said. "I'd rather not be barbecued."

They turned to the other door.

Martin, for a lack of anything better to do, drew the symbol.

To Joe's surprise, the door opened.

And inside, lying on the floor of what appeared to be the starship's bridge, was a very large, very unconscious monster.

* * *

Cameron Loveland stood on the beach, staring at the crashed UFOs.

Because that's what they were: UFOs.

"Holy shit," he murmured.

"Holy craptangular fucksticks," Holly agreed.

He glanced at her. Then back to the spaceships. Then behind them at the grey transport helicopters visible above the treetops. "What the heck is… what the… man. This is like, a real _situation._ " He fell silent, lacking the vocabulary to express his precise thoughts.

Holly, luckily, had plenty to make up for it. "Holy. Craptangular. Fucksticks."

The other students were equally awestruck, pointing and staring, same as the teachers. They'd arrived at the lakeshore a few minutes ago, chasing Joe, but now they were here nobody had any idea what to do. How could they?

_Did Joe and the others KNOW about the crash?_ Cameron wondered. _'Cause they just BOLTED to this spot without telling anyone…_ He ran a few fingers through his bright red hair, which mostly made it messier instead of neater. He was still sweating from their mad dash through the forest. _If I'm gonna make the first division b-ball team, I'm gonna need to start running more._

_FORGET THE SPORTS TEAM. FOCUS ON THE HECKING SPACESHIP._

_That's – that's a huge spaceship._

_It's real._

_Where's it from?_

_How'd it crash?_

_Those guys HAVE been acting weird lately, always sticking together, ever since that whole military incident during the summer which Violet says they were totally mixed up in and we were told never to talk about…_

_Huh._

"What're you thinking about?" Holly asked.

"A whole _bunch_ of stuff," Cameron replied.

"Yeah. Right?"

Then they had even more to think about, because right at that moment, a squad of soldiers in camouflage emerged from the treeline.

They had rifles drawn. Pointed at them. In a worryingly aggressive way.

Cameron froze.

People screamed.

Holly backed towards the water, looking for a teacher – _as if that's gonna help_ – and panic erupted for roughly two seconds before it was quashed by some extremely gruff voices saying 'HANDS IN THE AIR! DO NOT MOVE!'

The rifles stayed steady.

Cameron raised his hands.

With scared murmurs, so did everyone else.

The soldiers didn't have any identifying markings and they approached quickly, spreading out from between the pines.

* * *

Rachel froze, floating motionlessly in space.

Alice glanced at them. "Did you hear—"

_"HELP! HELP! IS ANYONE THERE?"_

"Holy shit that's a _person_ ," Charles hissed. "Holy—"

"Cooper's friend?" Rachel asked.

"At this point, who the hell knows," Alice said. "WE'RE COMING!" she shouted, her voice bouncing from the mirrors.

_"HELP ME! PLEASE!"_

"I don't know if they can hear you…" Charles said worriedly. The voice was close but distorted. "Where's it coming from?"

"Left, I think," Rachel said.

The next door opened onto a circular corridor filled with… corpses?

At least twenty lizard corpses drifted in the hallway, their grey skin traced by dim red light. From head to tail the lizards were taller than they were, but thinner, skeletal limbs bending in ways that still made Rachel shiver. It was the first time she'd been able to examine one up close (without the danger of it attacking her) and worryingly, the lizards didn't have eyes or mouths. Instead, their heads were honeycombed, like beehives, with dozens upon dozens of finger-wide _holes_.

She shivered again, trying not to look.

They floated carefully along the passage, trying to avoid brushing any stray tails. _Maybe they're only sleeping_ , Rachel thought. _Is that better or worse than them all being dead?_

Something in the distance buzzed.

"Shit shit shit!" Charles yelled. "It shot at me!"

"What?"

"Something _shot at me!_ "

A burst of red light streaked through the air.

"Back! Get behind them!" Alice said.

The wall exploded in a flash of searing white, making the air wobble. _Bwommmp!_ They retreated behind the crowd of floating lizards, bouncing awkwardly from the narrow walls. Her eyes burned from the sudden brightness.

Five seconds later – once their panic had subsided – Rachel realised it hadn't been a very _big_ explosion. Or perhaps not an explosion at all? The walls looked identical, give or take a few extra burn marks, which was promising, in terms of them not immediately dying.

"Are you hurt?" Alice asked.

"Don't think so," Charles said.

"What was it?"

"I'm not sure, sorry. I kinda wasn't expecting to be shot at."

"Reasonable," Rachel said.

_"HELP! HEEEEELP!"_ the voice shouted.

"Working on it," Alice grunted. She poked her head around the side and swiftly withdrew from another burst of red light, which stabbed into the resin-covered walls before promptly igniting in a flash. "It's a turret," she announced, "guarding a door in the middle of the tunnel. Looks like a popsicle wrapped in a bunch of pipe cleaners."

"Cool, so it's my third grade history diorama," Charles replied. "Always regretted making that thing. Can we sneak past?"

"No."

Right on cue, there was another " _HELP!"_

"…but I'm out of ideas and I don't want to end up like these guys." Alice gestured to the lizards. "Why would their own ship attack them?"

Charles grimaced, lying amongst the scaly corpses. "Well, I don't wanna hang here a _second_ longer than necessary. Lemme try something." He reached out, bringing a lizard closer with his foot. Then he grasped its tail – " _Ugh, it's still warm"_ – and sent it swinging down the hallway. For several yards the corpse remained untouched, spinning with the grace of a drunken ballerina, before abruptly being lanced by several spears of laser light. _Bwommp!_ Charles dove into cover at supersonic speed as the lizard was speared again – and again – until momentum made it rejoin its floating comrades.

"What the heck?" he panted. "Why shoot it if it's dead?"

"Proximity?" Rachel suggested.

"I thought we could push them ahead of us for cover. Man, I hate this. _I hate all of this._ "

"That's still useful information, though," Rachel said. "Think – what do we and the lizards have in common?"

"We move," Alice said. "And we're organic."

"Yes. Either one. And it's hard for us to _not_ be. What if we use that to our advantage?" Her mind raced. The turret was clearly attacking everything within a certain range and something about the dim red light reminded her of— _What was that game we played in the arcade? There were birds, and platforms, and an evil knight that shot arrows_ , _and one of the best ways to kill it was to get it to shoot…_ "…itself. We make the turret shoot itself."

Charles looked bewildered. "How?"

"Depends how good are you at throwing."

"I can peg my brother's head with an apple from two streets away?"

"Great." Rachel fished a battered pear from her pocket. "I was saving this for morning tea, but… here."

"Morning tea," Alice said dreamily. "I could use some morning tea."

Rachel smiled. Then frowned, staring at the pear. "Wait. This is stupid—"

"No it's not." Charles took the pear and drew back his arm. "Half way down the tunnel?"

"Yep, twenty yards," Alice replied. "On my ceiling. Your floor."

"Ugh. _Ihateallofthis._ " He took a few breaths, rolled his shoulder, then quick as he could pegged the pear at the turret's location.

They peeked around the lizards to watch—

As the turret whined—

And the pear bounced—

From the wall into a mess of piping—

And hit the turret—

And lances of red light seemed to burst in all directions—

Slicing it—

"Charles, get back—"

_Bwomp!_

Staccato flashes.

"Shit, it worked! It totally worked!"

The pipes supplying the turret tore free, spraying pale liquid, while the pear spun merrily down the tunnel in several pieces.

"Thanks, pear," Rachel murmured.

"It might still be good to eat," Alice said. "D'you want it?"

"…Not particularly, no."

They came to the airlock the turret had been protecting, its moist surface wreathed by blood-red vines. _Or veins_ , Rachel thought.

_Bam. Bam. Bam._ Somebody banging on the other side.

Charles shoulder-charged it.

"Ow," he said.

"That work?" Alice asked.

He gave her a sarcastic look.

But there was more tubing on either side of the door, like that which'd supplied the turret. Rachel grabbed some in both hands, wincing at its wet, pliant texture, trying to rip it out like you'd rip out an electrical wire, hoping it wouldn't zap them in a similarly terrible way—

It tore in half.

The vines covering the airlock withdrew.

Opened.

And there was a person _right_ there—

A weapon—

Charles leaned desperately out of the way as something long and brown _swept_ through the air where his head had been—

A _bat_ —

The person wielding it tumbling forward—

Out into the hallway, nearly losing their grip—

Turning to face them with wide, crazy eyes—

"Woah woah woah!" Charles said, raising his hands. "Don't hit me! Don't hit me."

The figure crouched, ready to run.

It was… a girl.

Rachel stared.

It was a girl.

* * *

"Is it… hurt?" Martin asked.

The alien lay on its back, unmoving. At first glance it was very similar to Cooper – about the same size, the same grey-green skin, the same approximate shape. Slightly thinner perhaps, its chest more defined, its face less sharp and more rounded, like a bone-petalled sunflower. Its limbs were curled up around it.

Its eyes were closed.

They approached gingerly.

"I can't see any blood…" Joe knelt, touching the creature's outstretched arm. He felt…nothing. No thoughts, no words, no rush of emotions. Only the texture of its rough, cool skin. "It might be unconscious."

"Or dead," Preston said.

"I don't think so. It doesn't _feel_ dead."

"You can tell?"

"Eh. Sort of." Joe stood, stepping over its arm. It was like stepping over a tree trunk. "We need to help it."

"How?" Martin asked.

"I don't know yet. Let's look around."

The starship's bridge was an elliptical chamber filled with hexagonal silver columns, all different heights and thicknesses, like the pipes of a fantastical organ. The room was quite cavernous, thirty metres end-to-end and nearly five metres high, the columns themselves not dissimilar in size to the trunks of the pine trees outside.

Most of the central area was blocked by the alien's body. Eerie blue lights floated around the edges, but they didn't react when Preston checked them, apart from a dip in brightness. Nothing seemed particularly obvious if you didn't know how it worked, and nobody was especially keen to start pressing things at random. Preston tried concentrating at the lights, fingers-on-temples Professor X style, but nothing happened and he felt stupid and he didn't enjoy feeling stupid so he stopped. At least they hadn't been teleported again.

Joe circled the body. The only visible injury was a large crack in the alien's stomach – something must've hit it hard enough to pierce its armour of bony ridges and plates. Pale fluid leaked from the wound, trickling down the creature's side.

He leaned a little closer to the alien's face, still cautious. "Are you breathing?" he asked aloud.

"Have you tried giving it CPR?" Cary called out. "I've learned CPR."

"Cary, I would rather die than have you give me CPR," Martin said.

"Fine, I was just _asking_." Cary wandered back out into the tunnel, searching for anything useful.

It was the same in both directions, so he wandered back.

It wasn't a very _exciting_ spaceship, Cary thought. No lasers. No hyperdrives. No robots. Just a whole buncha tunnels and weirdly empty rooms, almost like it needed something else, some other _input_ to make it all work. _Bo-RING._

BANG!

He jumped. _OK, so that was definitely an—_

"What was that?" Preston asked.

"Explosion," Cary muttered.

"An explosion? Where?!"

"There." Cary frowned, focusing on the other door – the one opposite the bridge. It was big, white and still locked (probably 'cause of all the blue fire behind it). He placed his palm on its surface. _Definitely warm_. He was about to try and listen when the heat grew suddenly, washing against his skin and he stepped back, sucking his fingers. Something was on _fire_ back there. Like, _REALLY_ on fire.

The door faced him down, defiantly concealing whatever was inside.

"I wanna check what's behind here," he called out.

Martin glanced over. "Isn't that just the engines?"

"What if there's useful stuff? Have _you_ found any useful stuff?"

"…no."

"Then I wanna check."

"Dude, can you even get through? Also, it's too dangerous. It'll be like, eighty percent dangerous, ten percent useful."

"That isn't enough percents," Preston murmured.

A part of Cary's brain agreed with keeping the door closed – something about explosions and oxygen and burning buildings and combinations thereof – but the other part of his brain _really needed to see what was behind that door_ , whether that might or might not involve a ton of cool blue fire.

Or pretty colours.

Colours in the sky.

He smiled and copied Martin's symbol on the door.

The cubes slid aside.

He caught the briefest glimpse of a huge, cavernous space bursting with blue and white—

Before there was a huge _roar_ and air came rushing past—

And heat came rushing out—

And before he knew anything the blue was roiling towards him—

Like a train derailing—

A train of fire—

And he threw himself out the way before the fire derailed _him_ and he lay on his back as the blue and white came whipping over his head and it was so _hot_ —

And it sucked down the hallway searching for more, more, _more_ to consume, across to the bridge where Joe and Martin and Preston were—

Punching them—

There was a _pop_ , like an explosion—

And the fire leapt like something alive (which was what he liked about it: it was _alive_ ).

The engine room door screeched and slammed shut.

A second later, the door to the bridge did the same.

The fiery draft recoiled, sliced in half. Without a source the blue flames began to settle and flicker out, leaving a significant part of the hallway ablaze.

Cary sat up.

"Uh-oh."

* * *

Joe was forced awake by a burning sensation on his face.

Correction: A burning sensation _everywhere_. He opened his eyes. He was lying against one of the silver pillars – wrapped around it, on his side – and his exposed skin was beginning to feel unpleasantly warm.

This was because the entire room was basically on fire.

"Uh-oh." He remembered hearing a thunderclap, looking up, seeing a bright blue inferno flooding towards him – shoving him back – an inferno now catching hold on nearly every conceivable surface whether it looked at all flammable or not. Most of the silver pillars were ablaze to some degree, each a radiant column of heat that made his eyes wince.

Not his pillar, though. That was lucky. He got up, fighting through the daze, took a breath and immediately hacked it back up. What were you supposed to do in these situations? _Stay low. Smoke rises, stay low._ His mouth tasted like the bottom of a toaster, the air choked with smoke.

He looked around.

Martin was okay, sitting up groggily.

Preston was okay, patting at sparks on his jeans.

Cary was—

Joe sprinted to the door, shielding his face. It didn't open. He tried unlocking it – it was like touching a barbecue – no response.

_Trapped._

"Joe?" Martin's voice.

"Yeah?"

"This doesn't look good." He sounded confused. "Everything's on fire!"

"I know, and this door won't open. Is there anything we can use to put it out?"

"Put it… out?"

He heard Martin wander off.

But the fire was spreading. It was searing bright, starting to melt the floor. _Melt_ the _floor! You'd think an alien spaceship would have a sprinkler system to help out or something but frankly this doesn't seem like a regular situation_ —

Joe removed his jacket and pressed it against his face, breathing through the fabric. That helped, a little. Then he started banging on the door. "Cary!"

* * *

On the other side, Cary heard him.

"Joe!" Aquamarine flames licked along the hallway, as if every surface was covered in lighter fluid. Fire wasn't supposed to behave like that.

" _Cary, what happened?"_

"I, I opened the door to the engines! I wanted to check if there was something inside but it was all on fire and the fire came out and…" He wiped the sweat from his eyes. The blaze was seeking, growing, surrounding him with heat that stung his ears and his hands and the back of his neck. At least he still had an escape route; Joe, on the other hand… "I can't see how to—"

_"Cary, can you open the door?"_

"I just wanted to—"

_"Cary, OPEN THE DOOR!"_

Joe's tone cut through the bullshit – a tone that meant quiet, calm, _reasonable_ Joe was roughly three seconds from exploding (or possibly being burned to death). Coughing, Cary tried the symbol. It didn't work. The door was either flat-out broken or jammed shut to prevent the fire's spread. He looked around. Not good. The world was slipping away, vanishing in smoke. _You idiot. You stupid frickin' idiot. This is all your—_

_"Cary, help! I can't breathe!"_

"I know! I'm _trying_!"

He screamed in frustration, and kicked the door as hard as he could. Again. Again. Again. Again, until something cracked in his foot and the pain jolted up his leg and he fell backwards. Hissing, he got up again, another scream building in his throat, prepared to claw through the god-damn walls with his god-damn hands if he had to—

_"Cary, I – I can't…"_

"Joe?"

Cary stopped. No sounds but the hiss of blue flame and the hum of the ship with its new, sickly undercurrent. The lights flickered. Coppery taste in his mouth.

"Joe?"

* * *

It was a _girl_.

The thought wormed its way into Charles' brain, wriggling around, refusing to leave. Of all the things he'd imagined they might find – and there were a lot of them – 'human girl' hadn't made his list. Aliens, yes. Girls, no. _Which demonstrates how messed up this is._

But it was a girl.

A girl of medium height – shorter 'n' Alice, he could tell, even with her crouching – with skin the colour of tea. She had short, tousled black hair, and her face, staring up at them, was kinda… elfy? Like, if you encountered an elf ranger in your generic fantasy forest, _that'd_ be her face. She was about their age. Maybe a year younger, maybe older, hard to tell.

Her eyes were green. Pale green.

"You done staring?"

Charles jolted back, pinwheeling into space. "Uh – yeah."

"Or I'll hit you again." She brandished her bat threateningly. It was flatter than a baseball bat, made of wood.

"Please don't," Charles said.

"Or _what_?"

"Or…" He lowered his hands. "Or I'll feel bad?"

Alice gave him a ' _that's_ what you're going with?' look.

"I'd hope so." The girl pinned them with a hostile glare. (A couple of years ago he'd discovered an injured racoon in the garden, which had possessed a plenty similar look right before it clamped its teeth around his foot.) Speaking of feet, he noticed the girl wasn't wearing any shoes. She _was_ wearing a grimy t-shirt and swim shorts, as if she'd been at the beach, and he couldn't identify her accent. It definitely wasn't local.

"You're STARING again! Stop it! God, if you're gonna help, could one of you idiots _please_ tell me what the EFF is going on! Where are we? Who are you?!"

The bat swiped through the air.

"Okay, okay! Just – calm down," Charles said. "We weren't expecting… this. You. Whatever this is. I'm guessing you weren't either."

"Of COURSE I wasn't expecting— eugh." She wobbled, steadying herself against the wall. " _Come on, Sarah. Come on._ " When she looked up again, her expression was more wary than outright hostile; she lowered the bat, letting it float beside her hip. "Thought you might be one of those animals when you opened the door. It's been one _heck_ of a long day."

"Are you… okay?" Alice asked.

"Yeah, I s'pose. Dead tired of all this floaty crap." She offered her hand. "I'm, uh… Sarah."

Charles took it. Despite her small frame she was deceptively well-built, actual muscles visible in her shoulders. _Now I'm EXTRA glad she didn't hit me._

… _better stop staring._ "Nice to meet you."

"Sure, sure. Sorry 'bout the bat. But seriously, what the _eff_ is up with this place?"

"That's… kind of a long answer," Alice said.

"Very long," Rachel added.

"And we don't have much time," Charles said. "Can we talk on the way?"

"As long as that includes gettin' the hell outta here."

"Oh, man, it _definitely_ does. You can explain why you're here, too, because we super weren't expecting to run into any humans—"

"Wait." Rachel held up her hand, pointing to the room Sarah had emerged from. "We might never get another chance to explore one of these ships. Not ever. We should take two minutes to look around – just so we don't regret it."

He bit his lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood. "…Sure. You're right, that makes sense. Two minutes."

Alice nodded.

One by one they floated through the portal.

"Then can we go?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah, for sure," Charles said. "Then we'll go."

She grabbed her bat, uncertainty bleeding from her eyes.

The room was oval-shaped, the size of a company boardroom, filled with connected spheres about half a metre in diameter. They were matte black and sprouted from the walls like berries from a vine, tumbling over each other. Open pipes dangled in various places, reminding Charles of plugs more than anything. _Plugs for what?_

"If you touch the spheres they… do stuff," Sarah said.

Charles tried one. Lights bloomed on its surface, like a game of checkers, then faded. It was easier to focus on exploring than the girl; the girl was a whole _other_ problem. A problem that'd be difficult to deal with because although she seemed friendly enough (after she'd stopped trying to cave his skull in) explaining entire this mess to her would be a gigantic pain in the—

"So I'm not crazy, right?" she said suddenly. "This is real? I'm not dreaming?"

"It's real," he said. "Messed up, but real."

"Hmm." Sarah floated in the middle of the room, watching them. She clutched her arms around her shoulders, exhausted, on edge. "Shitty dreams are bad enough. Shitty realities are worse."

_Yeah, Joe kept telling me that he wished he was dreaming… except he never was._

"So… how'd you end up in here?" Alice asked.

Sarah grimaced. "Not too sure. Last I remember I was at Cottesloe beach, playing beach cricket with my cousins, and then there was all this yelling, and a weird shadow in the sky. Like a cloud, but _solid_. Black and red. Then a flash and nobody could see, and… I heard people screaming and falling and then _I_ was falling? – flying? – nah, falling, and I'm pretty sure I hit a bunch of stuff on the way down—" She rolled up her shirt a little, revealing a nasty bruise on her stomach. "—and gradually all the other voices disappeared, like I was being _pulled_ from them, or maybe they… well. Later on I woke up in a room. A different one, a couple of hallways back."

It was cool inside the ship but Sarah was sweating, the beads coalescing and glinting like jewels. Her voice cracked. "Got any water?"

"Just wait till you see what's outside," Alice said. "We're on a lake."

"Oh, fan-effing- _tastic_ , I could probably drink a lake. I haven't had water for… a day? Two days? Hard to tell. No sunlight obviously. But yeah, I was stuck in that room for a while. Spewed a bunch; floating in vomit is a great experience, I'd recommend it. Sorry if I smell. Do I smell? Sorry. Anyway, one of those lizards came through the door and _that_ was a surprise, let me tell you, so I whacked it with my bat and more of those effing things started chasing me but I managed to get in this room and kinda accidentally touched a whole row of those balls and I think I locked the door somehow?" Her voice raced. "I dunno. And then I cried a bit and there was a huge crash and everything went red and alarm-y, and I seriously thought I was dying – dreaming? – nah, dying, until everything stopped. It just _stopped…_ and I waited. Then you came. And now I just wanna go home because I'm effing _tired_ and _hungry_ and _dead_ and everything hurts I just want to be back effing HOME! I want this to be a dream! But it's _not_!"

She flung her bat with all the force she could muster. It bounced off the ceiling, end over end. Rachel had to duck out of the way, her hair forming a halo around her head.

"Sorry," Sarah sniffed. "I'm a bit stressed."

"That's okay."

"Where is home?" Alice asked.

She sniffed again. "Perth."

"I don't think I've heard of it."

"Oh. It's in Australia."

Alice's face lit up. "For real? I always wanted a penpal from Australia. It sounds like a neat place."

"Well, here I am. One Australian, here against her will." She smiled, in that brittle 'I've been awake far too long and I guess everything's hilarious now' way. Even so, it was the kind of smile that conquered half the room.

_Woah,_ Charles thought. _Her teeth are ridiculous._

"So, I'm trying to think of reasonable explanations for, ya know, being here," Sarah said. "Do you remember like… rubbing any genies' lamps recently? Because if you have, I'll probably smash you."

"Not that I recall," Rachel said, with deadly seriousness.

Charles touched another of the black spheres. Suddenly a rumble came from deep within the ship, which built and built until there was a powerful _squeeze_ in his chest – like when you stood too close to an exploding firecracker – building to encompass the whole room, the whole _world_ as if space itself was rippling. From outside, he heard a noise like a waterfall.

The feeling passed.

Sarah blew her nose on her sleeve, understandably past the point of personal hygiene. "Ugh. Sorry 'bout that. Shoulda warned you not to— wait a sec. Do you lot smell… smoke?"

* * *

Mind blank.

Just him.

Him and his fire.

_He remembered sprinkling firecracker powder on his desk. It was meant to ignite. Burn a pattern into his memory. He remembered being so_ excited, _so amped he was jumping out of his skin, without being able to convey exactly why (the colour thing never made sense to other people.)_

_But the powder_ did _form a pattern – an insane, gnarly, multi-coloured pattern that burned quicker 'n lightning. It was incredible, the best thing he'd seen all week._

He remembered sparks latching onto the curtains. They were ablaze before his brain let him stop thinking about the colours.

He remembered watching them burn.

He remembered the flames attacking the walls, the roof, smoke curling from the blistered paint, the soothing heat making his face glow with delight.

That was the first moment he realised something was wrong.

_Still, he remembered watching the flames. He remembered watching, and watching, and thinking it was simpler just to_ watch _instead of worrying 'bout whatever else. The other stuff… he didn't wanna think about the other stuff—_

A dog barking. He'd never forget that stupid dog. Died a few months later, tumour or something. But right then, it was the neighbours' dog (barking at what?) that managed to stir him from that waking dream, dream into nightmare, letting a million thoughts crash in on him at once and the thought at the top of that fluttering wave was 'water.'

_He remembered going into the hallway and hearing his baby sister screaming. It wasn't HER that'd woken him, oh no, it was that stupid freaking DOG. The fire was there, licking at the carpet, making the shelves in his room groan as they dumped their red-hot contents to the floor._

He remembered his sister screaming.

She screamed a lot, like most babies, but he'd never heard her scream like _this_.

Or Joe? He'd never heard Joe sound like this? Water? The lake? He had to go and—

_He remembered filling a bucket in the laundry, realising it was way too small, running outside to unroll the garden hose. He remembered seeing the door to his sister's room buckling – why'd he locked her away? Why'd he done that? Oh, it was because she'd been sleeping and he hadn't wanted the firecrackers to wake her – and he remembered kicking it and kicking it and kicking it, the wood warped from the heat, just kicking that freaking door but nothing._

He sank to the floor.

_He remembered staying like that for a while. Longer than he should've. He remembered sitting against the outside of the house, not enough room in his stupid brain to think of anything but nothing, because he was an idiot. His fault. His fault. His fault._

Nothing.

_And before he'd run to the window, before he'd seen his baby sister surrounded by flames and seen how helpless she was and how the flames didn't care (his parents always laughed about 'their little surprise' and he hadn't been too keen on a sister, 'specially not a gross baby)… before he'd broken the window and cut his leg and snatched her up and fled, before the fire engines came screaming over the hill while the neighbours watched forlornly from the road, with their dog still barking and barking like it was barking at_ him, _like it knew what he'd done and how he was broken… – before all that – he'd thought his sister was going to die._

And it was his fault.

Cary sank to the ground.

He didn't move.

Didn't think.

Stared blankly at the wall.

Past the flames hissing up and down the tunnels, around him, closer and closer, hissing at that damn locked door.

He didn't cry much. Usually he made a point of laughing instead, because crying was for losers and if no one _saw_ you were sad, then you weren't. Right? Trees falling in woods, or something. But he'd cried after his parents had rushed home, after they'd seen what was left of their house – the ashes and embers and blackened bricks – after he'd seen those ashes reflected in their eyes, and later that night and the next day and the next when they'd treated him just the same even after what he'd done (and months later when he found out the neighbours' dog had died).

And Cary remembered it was his fault.

* * *

Joe had to move back from the door.

It was hot. _Very_ hot. The kind of hot that made it hard to think, and made your skin feel so stretched and red it threatened to peel at any second. He sucked down a breath, the air burning in his lungs. It wasn't good. None of this was good. The pillars that'd caught alight were spreading – the blue fire consuming them with eerie efficiency – and showed no signs of slowing down, ripping the ship's pale perfection to shreds. Far too quickly the entire bridge was becoming white heat, threatening to trap them like flies in a web of flame, leaving nothing but molten cubes in its wake.

"This isn't _natural_!" Preston shouted, backing away from the flames. "Fire doesn't… aaah!"

_This has to be a weapon,_ Joe thought. _Or a bad chain reaction—_

Flames raced across the floor. He had to close his eyes as the heat tore at him, pounded at him, snatching at his thoughts until they were reduced to specks of ash. The door was almost fully ablaze but there was a bit of open ground between the closest two pillars and he forced himself to dart through the gap, shielding his face, choking on smoke, feeling that sudden _rawness_ you got from standing a little too close to a bonfire except it was a whole _cave_ of bonfires.

Still, he'd found a few seconds' respite.

The flames roared, pulsing white and blue.

Time for some coherent thoughts.

_One: has Martin found anything the put the fire out with yet?_

(Obviously not, Joe, you idiot.)

_Two: is the alien OK?_

He looked. It hadn't moved. Hopefully it hadn't been cooked yet, but the fires were close.

_Three:_ I _haven't been cooked yet._

That was important – better than 'yeah ok it's been a good run but we're probably gonna get burned alive and that'll really really suck, won't it.'

But was there anywhere to escape to? No.

Ways to get around the side? No.

Ways to do _anything_ useful _?_ Not really. They were stuck between the door and surging walls of blue flame, ceiling, walls, the floor going up too – _bad bad bad, we kinda need that to stand on –_ and it was so, so, hot. The air. Him. Everything. Why was it so _hot_? He covered his face as the closer pillars caught hold and the wash of heat pummelled his arms. He could swear his clothes were starting to smoke.

_Getting burned alive_ does _suck._

_…no giving up. YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO GIVE UP. Charles is still out there, and Alice, and your dad, and they're really gonna hate you if you die to death in this bullshit room and if you never get to watch a scary movie or ride a bike too fast or kiss Alice in the rain ever again…_ He prepared to try and run through a thinner patch of the inferno, to get to Preston and Martin at least, find a way out, maybe a melted section of wall, any path to create some distance and to stop it all hurting when suddenly there was a real loud—

BANG!

Joe forced his eyes open. Flaming pillars seared a crosshatch into his retinas. The wall at the front of the bridge was _imploding,_ tumbling inward, not on its own but punched by something unseen.

He thought of rain.

Imagined it so vividly he could _feel_ rain. And crashing through the smoke and debris and tornado of sparks was…

* * *

Charles, Rachel, Alice and Sarah were vomited unceremoniously onto the roof, exiting from a narrow vent that irised into the sunlight. Re-adjusting to gravity was tricker than expected and Charles immediately fell flat on his face.

"Oof!" He lay prone for a moment, squinting in the sunlight.

The new girl stayed crouched, gazing at the lake while trying extremely hard not to puke. "Where are we?" she asked miserably.

"Michigan," he replied.

"Michigan? Isn't that in… _America?!_ "

"Yup."

"Oh _god—_ "

Alice climbed to her feet unsteadily. She pointed towards the silver vessel. "'Oh god' sounds about right. Look."

It was on fire.

And not just a little – a _lot_ on fire, blue-white flames sprouting from dozens of spots along the crescent, its entire upper edge wreathed in shimmering heat, emitting a harsh welding-torch growl. The bow of the wreck shuddered suddenly as butterflies of debris spiralled into the air.

"Holy crap," Charles murmured. "Are the others still inside?"

"I can't see them," Rachel said worriedly. "I'm going to try something. Hold me."

It took him a second to hear her. "What?"

"Just make sure I don't fall."

"Uh…"

Rachel closed her eyes. Uncertainly, he moved behind her, supporting her shoulders with his hands (his sweaty, dirty, mud-stained hands, which was a stupid thought but one he couldn't get rid of).

Rachel stood, perfectly straight. For an uncomfortably long moment, the world stayed the same.

Then she breathed in.

And the lake started to _rise._

The surface of the lake next to the ship _swelled_ upward—

Like a huge rubber sheet—

Into a dome of water—

Stretching slowly—

Drawn up until it became a _sphere_ of water twenty yards across—

Dripping, wobbling, held together by the force of tidal waves—

Suspended ten yards above the lake.

Rachel stumbled. Charles held her in place. Tendons in her neck vibrated like violin strings. The water-sphere hovered for a moment, huge and unreal, the sunlight attacking its edges and making its green-blue surface twinkle.

" _Eff_ _me_ ," Sarah said (except she didn't say 'eff').

Rachel exhaled, more a grunt than a breath.

And the water-sphere went _flying_ at the central part of the ship where the blaze was at its height, accelerating faster than seemed physically possible, the fluid streaking then violently bursting with a thunderclap as it shattered across the flames.

Clouds of steam erupted from the ship. Newborn rivers flowed across the silver. The fires hissed in pain.

Charles felt Rachel sag.

And fall.

And he caught her.

* * *

It was Cooper.

_It was Cooper._ The thirty-foot-tall alien came bellowing out the steam, galloping on six legs after punching right through the goddamn wall. Sunlight flooded into the bridge. Joe's heart leapt. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't move much to be honest but his heart did a fucking _backflip._ He'd never been so happy to see a giant alien monster in his _life_.

Cooper ripped at the hole he'd made, tearing it wider, blessed sunlight pouring in, then launched forward with all four arms and skidded to a stop by his unconscious ally. His bellow of… anger, or fear, it sounded like _fear_ made the air thrum with anxiousness.

Joe shivered. The bridge was ankle-deep with water, sloshing from side to side. Steam was everywhere but the fires were smaller and _water_ was forcing itself through the gaps in the hull in a hundred trickling streams… but wherever it'd come from, the flow wouldn't last forever. His skin felt raw; he touched his face gingerly and soon regretted it.

"Preston? Martin?" His voice sounded like it was coming from inside a fishbowl.

Martin raised a hand, sitting against a wall. "Here! _God_ , I'm still here."

Preston was lying on the ground nearby and waved feebly in acknowledgement.

_What about Cary?_

Joe stumbled towards Cooper. The big alien was crouching by its friend, crooning softly. It stroked their chest; checked their face.

"Cooper?"

The alien didn't look – just touched him with a finger and in that split-second contact was an entire book of images:

[APOLOGY]

[ALIVE]

[IGNORE]

[COMPROMISED]

[STIMULATE]

[LEAVING]

[STATUS?]

[ENEMIES]

"Cooper, listen. Can you get Cary? He's—"

Cooper bellowed directly at the unconscious alien, filling the air with sound. Then it hurtled to the door and kicked it, splashing wildly; it took a second kick to finally force it open and Cooper reached through, depositing a small, lifeless shape onto its back.

_Cary. He looks… well, at least his eyes are open._

There was still no response from the other alien. Cooper's mouthparts flared; then it grunted, and with a strength that was still surprising even after all they'd witnessed, it enfolded its arms around the other alien's body and _lifted._ It was, Joe thought, a bit like a house deciding to carry another house _._ The other creature remained limp as a willow as Cooper's feet scrabbled for purchase. Then Cooper bent down, and with its last slender arm it swept them all up: Preston, Martin, Joe too—

He felt himself dragged upward with sickening speed—

Screamed—

Closed his eyes—

Felt the world lurch and suddenly Cooper was running—

Roaring—

Holding them all tight—

Bounding through the hole in the spaceship's hull, briefly flying, then crashing down into the lake.

Free.

* * *

Charles, Alice, Rachel and Sarah dropped into the water, just in time to see Cooper – his four passengers flailing wildly – sprint for the shoreline, fast enough to give a cheetah a run for its money. The waves were _insane_.

"Oh," Sarah said calmly. "Would ya look at that."

Rachel wiped the blood from her nose. "We need to move."

"Let me know if you need—"

"I'm fine, Charles."

She didn't look fine.

But they waded towards the shore as fast as they could manage.

Before they were half way there, another trio of helicopters burned through the air overhead, low enough to spot the pilot in each cockpit. Spray whipped upward, stinging their eyes. The choppers banked hard a couple of miles into the forest, then hovered, descending out of view behind a ridge.

* * *

Charles struggled through the trees, following the others. He was exhausted; the world reduced to midnight tunnel, everything a blur but for his feet at the end of it, one in front of the other. One. In front. Of the other. "Hey! When are we…" _Stopping_ , he wanted to say, but there wasn't enough air to make the words.

Eventually, though, they did stop, a few hundred yards into the pines.

Charles sagged gratefully against a tree, the others sitting in various states of dishevelment. A flock of birds squawked in panic as Cooper set his unconscious cargo down in the undergrowth. Here the vegetation was dense enough to hide them from above, with nothing to distinguish it from any other spot in the surrounding forest.

"Okay," Charles wheezed. "Okay… okay…" _We need to…_

He looked up. Saw Martin walk over to Cary.

And hit him, hard – hard enough to knock him to the dirt, scattering leaves into the air. "You _idiot!_ You _imbecile!_ We _told_ you not to open it!" Martin shouted.

The smaller boy simply stared into space. Martin grabbed his shoulders, shaking him like a ragdoll. "You set the whole freaking _place_ on fire! We could've been _killed_ 'cause of you!" Cary's his head lolled back and forth, bearing a blank, empty stare – which if anything made Martin angrier. "You always do this! You always – _freaking_ – DO this—"

He hit him again. Cary's skull cracked backwards.

Almost before Charles knew what he was doing, he'd taken five steps and grabbed Martin's arm, pulling him away. "Stop," he said harshly.

"No! You weren't there—"

"Just stop it."

Martin gave him a sad, desperate look – fist raised – then groaned and stepped back, shoulders slumping, shrinking into himself.

The leaves settled.

The others looked… stunned. Tired. Afraid. A billion other things. Rachel especially was worse for wear, her skin ashen, eyes barely open, and more than anything he wanted to walk over and comfort her but… Joe, Preston, Martin, they all looked like they'd been in the sun for six hours too long, soot stuck to their clothes, plus Cary was still just… _standing_ there. Not really focusing, barely even breathing, just standing, arms by his sides.

It gave Charles the heebie-jeebies. _Joe goes empty occasionally, sure, but never Cary._ "What's wrong with him?" Charles asked. "What happened?"

"There's a word for it, I think," Alice said. "Cat… cata…"

"Catatonic," Preston said. "Something was wrong with the ship but there was an out of control reaction—"

Suddenly, Cooper moved. He stood up; stretched, tall as the treetops; then touched the unconscious alien's face with one enormous palm.

"Woah," Sarah said, jaw dropping like an anvil.

Martin frowned, noticing her for the first time. "Wait. Who are you?"

Her gaze pirouetted from curiosity to steel. "Who are YOU?"

"…I asked you first?"

"So? Doesn't matter."

"Um, I feel like it does—"

"Guys, guys," Charles interrupted. "So, ah, this is… this is Sarah. Everyone, Sarah. Sarah, everyone." He gestured vaguely at each of them, then at Sarah, wishing she'd stop glaring _quite_ so much. "We, uh, kinda found her on the ship? She was there by accident. A prisoner, sort of. So we rescued her."

The other half of the group processed this information.

" _Why_ was she there?" Preston asked.

"Accident. Similar to an alien abduction situation."

"Yes, I understand, but _why her_ —"

"Hey," Sarah said.

Joe pressed his face into his hands, trying to wipe the tiredness away. "Charles, this is going to be difficult to deal with."

"I know."

"We're gonna have to figure out how to handle—"

"Joe, I realise that, which is why I think we should skip the nicey-pie introductions and focus on getting the heck out of here instead—"

"HEY!" Sarah yelled, loud enough to give them a headache. "Stop _talking_ like I'm not here! Like, thanks for the rescue and everything, but if you don't mind I'd like to do the introductions _now_ because I'm bloody sick and tired of being dragged around places I don't wanna be!" She waved theatrically at them. " _Please!_ And some food would be nice so I don't fall over and die."

They turned to look at her.

Charles held his hands out. "I know, I know, I can't imagine what it's been like. But could you give us like, a minute? Just a minute? Please?"

"No!" She balled her fists. "I've been starving for three days! No more minutes!"

* * *

It turned out Joe had a snack bar in his pocket, which the girl tore into with a mixture of gratefulness and glee. He could swear he'd seen her before but of course they'd never met; that was impossible. As he watched, she stalked into the forest, swiping her bat against the bushes. Her weird blend of confidence, curiosity and general pissed-off-ness reminded him of Violet in a way – that same self-assured annoyance – but obviously very different at first glance, with the bouncy black hair and stocky arms and tanned skin.

He snuck a glance at Cooper, still caring for the other alien. As far as Joe knew it hadn't moved. That seemed like a bad sign. Cooper had been afraid of bringing his own ship too close – afraid of what, precisely, Joe didn't know – but it meant they now had to walk out of danger, or possibly run if they were feeling energetic.

The girl circled back, catching his gaze for a second. He smiled nervously. She didn't. He winced, nursing the burns on his fingers. The others were still talking.

"—can't stay here!" Alice was saying.

"…Can't we?" Rachel asked hoarsely. "We need help, and we need to ask for it – from the school, if we have to."

"But you saw those helicopters – the air force is _here_. I like Mr Bandy and Mrs Shaw's pretty scary but if it's the army vs teachers, teachers lose."

"Where do we even go?" Martin asked. "We don't have supplies, we're all exhausted, we barely know where we are – we can't _go_ anywhere! And I thought the teachers _would_ be here. We saw them on the beach, didn't we? Where'd they go?"

"Oh, so we can introduce Cooper to the class like a giant pet?" Alice said. "And then try to explain that aliens are invading – have _already_ invaded – and are about to steal everyone's life force and we really need your help to defeat them so, um, let's go? Pretty please?"

"Is that sarcasm?" Joe murmured.

"No! Yes? No!"

Then Charles grinned suddenly. "Here's an idea… what if we go back to the ship?"

Martin shuddered. " _Back?_ To that _hellhole_?"

"Yeah! What if Cooper can fix the silver ship, or at least make it fly – kinda – and we fly _that_ to wherever we need to go, because you're right – we _do_ need help, and medicine, and food, and—"

His smile melted away, like late spring snow.

There were men coming out of the woods.

Lots of them.

Dressed in forest camouflage, wearing helmets and green balaclavas. Carrying black, long-barrelled assault rifles. Plates of body armour strapped across their chests. They were approaching from uphill.

Cooper looked up.

Joe's legs were suddenly jelly.

The others froze, falling silent. There wasn't much chance of running anymore.

The soldiers – they _were_ soldiers – formed a line, thirty metres distant.

_Well, crap._

But the soldiers were…

…different. They didn't look like US army. Not like any he'd seen, anyway; they were bulkier. More geared up. His heart pounded.

The central soldier stepped forward and raised a fist. He barked an order.

And it didn't sound like English. It sounded like—

"Holy crap," Charles hissed. "They're Russians!"

Cooper breathed, softly.

"It's the fucking Russians!"

The soldiers descended through the trees like spectres, silent and swift, but didn't seem particularly interested in the group of frozen teenagers. A couple of them were carrying a large, long cylinder and set it down on a tripod. After a moment's struggle, they had it aimed towards the group. _How are there Russians here? How! HOW!? It's the middle of freaking Michigan!_

Joe glanced at Alice. She was shivering. Charles gawped like a pufferfish.

" _Ogon na porajeniye!_ "

Soldiers at either end of the line clicked their safeties.

Cooper _tensed._

_Thunk!_ Something big, grey, and rapidly-expanding burst from black tripod.

It was a net.

An extremely _big_ net.

It whipped through the gaps between the trees, reaching its god-like hand towards Cooper.

And Cooper _roared._

The sound blasted through the forest, making the pine needles shiver, and the alien bounded sideways, skidding on the damp earth. The net wrapped itself around a tree catching nothing but air, the weights on each end _clunking_ together.

The soldiers seemed surprised at this.

Before they could react, Cooper charged.

Joe's eyes widened. He ducked behind a log, dragging Alice with him just as—

_BLAT! BLAT BLAT BLAT!_ Gunfire cracked through the forest, sharp bursts of it, bullets ricocheting and splintering off the pines. Cooper bellowed again, drowning out the battle. _WooooOOOOooooOOOO!_

_Oh crap. Oh crap oh crap oh crap!_ Joe hunkered down as bullets whipped overhead, Alice flat beside him. The branches shivered. _We should be safe if we stay out of the way. Right? The Russians don't care about us. But they probably don't care about NOT shooting us either?!_

"This day has already crossed too many lines and it's not even effing lunchtime!" Sarah shouted. "What the—"

_Thunk!_ Another net. It definitely hit _something_ they couldn't see from their hiding spot, but he heard Cooper roar close by and suddenly the creature was _right there_ next to them, towering amongst the trees, the thick net wrapped around two of its arms, but the alien wriggled free and threw it off, crashing _straight through_ a couple of younger pines in an explosion of leaves and branches.

Its six limbs were a blur as it darted away.

Alice slithered up, her back to the log. The bullets were terrifying punctuation marks between heartbeats. Joe searched for the others; they'd managed to find cover behind scattered rocks and tree trunks, Martin closest, Charles furthest away.

"They have guns! Actual GUNS!" Preston screeched.

Martin covered his head. "Is this World War 3? Did it start while we weren't looking?"

"Stay down!" Alice shouted.

"I don't wanna be killed be Russians! I don't wanna—"

"Then _stay down!_ "

The semicircle of soldiers was closing in, tightening towards the unmoving shape of Cooper's fallen comrade. Cooper himself was circling too, in the distance at the edge of Joe's vision, until the big alien abruptly turned and came charging right back at the ragged edge of the camouflaged soldiers' line.

_WooooOOOOooooOOOO!_

The first few soldiers began dumping ammo, but bullets weren't going to stop him, not now.

Cooper leapt, and— WHAM! Came hurtling down. The earth _shook,_ two soldiers crushed instantly beneath his dense grey bulk. The next-closest tried to run but Cooper's arm lashed out, picked him up, pile-driving him head-first into the dirt. A neck cracked. He punched another, sending him feet-first into a tree with a hideous shriek of pain.

And now the Russians were screaming too, abandoning the other alien for a moment, focusing on Cooper. The muzzle flashes intensified.

"C'mon, tear 'em up!" Charles yelled. "Go!"

Joe couldn't help feeling that same hint of elation, an adrenaline-pumping swing between _oh crap we're dead_ to _oh wow are we_ winning _this?_ He risked a glance around the log to see Cooper rip a pine tree – _a freaking TREE_ – clean out of the ground, roaring… then swing it round like a supersonic wrecking ball to crack three soldiers across the chest and send them soaring through the canopy. Splinters rained across the hillside.

The Russians tried to regroup, some firing, most retreating. Blood slicked the earth.

" _Peregruppirovat! Peregruppirovat!_ "

Cooper snorted, tossing the tree trunk aside, galloping towards his unconscious friend. He skidded to a stop beside it. Soldiers reloaded, slipping in and out of cover, trying to create some distance with which to attack from range.

_He's still trying to save his friend_ , Joe realised. _And once he does… he's going to run._

_Which means we need to too._

Joe stood amid the momentary respite. "Let's split! We gotta go! Now!"

It took a second for everyone to react.

But once they did it became a mad dash downhill, no real direction except AWAY as fast as possible, by random group consensus picking west to shadow the distant lakeshore. Pine trees blurred on either side. The gunfire resumed an instant later, arcs of bullets lashing at where Cooper had been, slicing through the leaves above their heads, making them duck, Joe feeling a sharp _twinge_ at every sound expecting a stray shell to pierce the middle of his back—

_BLAT BLAT BLAT BLAT!_

None did. Not yet, anyway. He looked back and saw Cooper's silhouette toss a boulder into the air, debris flying, gunfire sparking, Russians shouting, saw Rachel there, stumbling, tiredness everywhere on her face, Charles beside her barely holding her up; Sarah's eyes wide with panic, Cary blankly following. Another helicopter buzzed low overhead, its blades gusting leaves into their eyes. The ground dipped suddenly beneath him, becoming steeper.

_Where do we go?_

_Back to the ships? Back to the camp? Just pick a direction and run?_

_None of those are great ideas._

_Remember, the Russians are chasing Cooper, not you. It isn't over._

The gunfire was becoming softer; more distant. _Blat blat! Blat!_ He came to a steep drop, three metres high, and half-ran half-slid down it with Alice in tow. Dead sticks and leaves formed a pile at the bottom. It was shadowy here, darker, a part of the forest he didn't recognise.

"Charles!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Which way!"

Charles was still at the top of the ridge. He glanced around. Opened his mouth to reply—

And then he saw Charles.

Get.

Shot.

Charles shuddered suddenly, like someone'd punched him.

And he looked confused. That was what Joe would remember – he looked _confused_ – as a spray of hot red erupted from his back.

Charles didn't say anything. Mouth still open.

"Charles!"

The red spray burned itself into Joe's vision.

Then he fell forwards on his hands and knees, collapsing onto the dirt.

"CHARLES!"

Joe halted at the bottom of the ridge, staring at Charles three metres above. Only his face was visible, and an out-stretched arm, the same confused eyes seemingly staring right at him.

_He's not dead. He's not dead. He's fine. It's CHARLES, for god's sake, he's FINE—_

More bullets burned through the air over the ridge. Closer.

_He's fine._

_He'll be fine._

He stared at Alice. She looked confused too.

_Where are the others?_

_They were… ahead of us. They're safe._

He saw Charles' mouth move. Or at least, he thought he did. Alice started climbing back up the ridge, grabbing some roots to pull herself up—

Gunfire thwacked against the trees above their heads, violent and loud. The Russian voices had overrun Cooper's position. _"Nad khrebtom!"_

"Stop," Joe said.

"What?" Alice asked.

"We have to go." He grabbed her arm, pulling her down.

She shook him off. "Joe! Charles is—"

"It's not _safe!_ We need to run! We'll come back later to rescue Charles."

" _Later?!_ "

"Two minutes. If we go up there now, we'll get hurt too." He started dragging her through the trees, running after the others. _You'll get hurt._ You'll _be the one lying there, with all the blood dripping out of you and nothing in your eyes._ "Two minutes…"

Gunfire echoed. Something splintered to their left. Charles' face gaped at him, ashen and grey, red trickling from between his lips. Alice's face mirrored it in his mind, in reality overcome with panic and disbelief.

Cary. Martin. Preston. Rachel.

They mattered.

Cooper. Cooper's friend. Their mission.

It mattered.

And Charles was important too, Charles was his _best friend_ , but Charles would be OK for two minutes, he'd been moving – the Russians wouldn't kill him – the Russians might even _help_ him, right? – but he couldn't bear anyone else getting hurt, couldn't bear Alice poking her head above the ridge only to get a bullet right between her eyes—

He didn't want his mother to go to the mill that day—

Charles hit the dirt in a spray of red.

His mouth moved. _'Joe, I… help me…'_

_We will, Charles. We will, I swear—_ The trees blurred. He could see the others now, crashing through the undergrowth fifty yards ahead, Alice behind him stumbling like a dead weight but still _there_. Still alive. He remembered leaving Charles that night in Lillian, looking after Martin's broken leg, and thinking that perhaps he'd never…

_Don't think._

He ran.

And he didn't think – not about the blood, or Alice, or Charles, or his mother until he came to a panting, retching stop in a small, mossy clearing, thick with the scent of pine.

The others were all staring at them (even the new girl).

Alice sobbed. A big, heaving sob. "Charles, he – he…"

"Where is he? What happened to him?" Martin asked.

"He, he got shot, I think he's alive but he got shot—"

"Charles got _what?_ Jesus _Christ_ what happened?"

"I don't know! I don't think anyone meant to but—"

"But he's alive, right? Right?!"

Joe forced himself to focus.

Charles collapsed in a spray of red.

Alice explained how they'd left Charles behind.

_I left him behind._

Joe clenched his fists, tighter and tighter until they hurt and drowned out the pain of that simple statement. But… they were alive, and he couldn't hear the Russians anymore, and there weren't any bullets whizzing towards their backs.

_I left him because we had to. Now we're going to save him._

He could hear something ahead, from the other direction. Voices?… Guns?

Maybe guns. But mostly voices.

English voices.

_Uh-oh._

The trees whispered.

"I hear something," he said aloud.

"—get help," Preston was saying, "from someone who knows first aid. What?"

Joe tilted his head, listening. "There are people coming."

The others paused mid-freakout.

Alice blinked, her eyes red. She turned, following his gaze. "Oh, no…"

Because moving through the trees towards them, and the clearing, were dozens more soldiers.

"It never ends," Martin groaned. "It never freaking _ends_."

Joe's stomach sank like a stone. The soldiers advanced with purpose, half-crouching, several squads dotted between the pines. They wore olive-green forest camouflage but the uniforms felt different to the Russians', a hundred yards distant but close enough to start picking out faces.

They were US Army uniforms.

_"Group sighted in the clearing! Non-combatants!"_

Another helicopter approached over the lake, its rotors shimmering, sound travelling far in the cool forest air. _The helicopters must be American,_ Joe realised, _responding to the crash. But then… how'd the Russians get here? How'd a bunch of Russian commandos end up in rural Michigan?_

The soldiers approached, moving swiftly. The central squad was led by a pair of officers, one wearing the usual green, while the other possessed black body armour and sunglasses and an expression that was distinctly familiar.

"Rachel," Martin said quietly, "that's your…"

"…dad," she finished.

"Oh _crap_ ," Sarah murmured.

Rachel stared, eyes dark, jaw clenched, her shock betrayed by a slight quiver in her voice. "Why? Why is… he must've _followed_ …"

Her father's face glittered with recognition. He gestured towards them, removing his sunglasses, revealing a focused gaze and an out-of-place smile.

He was _here_. _Here_ , in the forest, hundreds of miles from home.

Joe squeezed his eyes shut. _If the army finds Cooper – if they figure out he's back – they'll lock him in a cage and throw away the key, and we'll be locked right in there with him. They haven't learned anything. There's nothing we can do to stop it. And while they're busy searching in all the wrong places, the world's probably gonna end._

_Why can't this be_ easy _? Why does it have to be_ hard _? Why does the world have to always be against us? We're the GOOD_ _guys, it isn't supposed to work this way._

_But… it does._

_And life will keep reminding you of that until you get it through your thick skull._

"I give up," Alice whispered. "I give up."

"Don't," Rachel replied. "I'll stop them from chasing you. Go. Now."

Alice glanced at her. "What? No—"

"He'll never let them hurt me; I'll be fine." She shook her head, fists balled tight. "But your safety isn't something I can guarantee. You should go."

"No, listen to me! We stay together. We can figure something _out_. We aren't leaving you behind." Alice pinned her with a determined stare, one that said ' _I won't let you go.'_ Rachel looked up, and Joe felt ice clutch his heart – there was pain in her eyes, and sorrow, and tiredness too, plain for all to see – but underlying everything, that familiar spark of ' _listen, I know what I'm doing.'_

He hoped it wasn't a trick of the light.

"Help Charles," Joe said quietly. "Please."

"You don't have to do this," Alice said, grabbing her wrist, "I'm _telling_ you not to do this—"

"I know. Thank you." She removed Alice's hand. Then she turned to Joe: "I will."

Quickly, she stepped away, facing the forest.

"How are you gonna stop them?" asked Martin.

Rachel shrugged.

And that was the last they saw of her: a girl, in a faded purple hoodie, a little over five feet tall, facing down an oncoming army.

* * *

They slogged up the ridge, following the sound of running water _._ The pine trees thinned as they climbed, making way for grey-barked birches, their boughs heavy with reddening leaves that crunched like tinfoil underfoot. Joe's legs were aching and his lungs burned fire and he wasn't sure if he could keep going for ten miles or ten yards but still they ran, still they ran because, at some point, running was all they had.

They certainly didn't have Charles anymore.

Didn't have Rachel.

Didn't even have a place to hide.

"Stop," Preston said breathlessly, "I have to stop."

"If you stop I'll kill you," Martin grunted.

"Good! Please do – aaah!"

Preston barely avoided being tragically squished as Cooper came crashing out of the tangled vegetation. The alien scrambled, as if surprised it'd found them; it gave them an odd little sad-puppy glance (perhaps just a consequence of the shape of its face). It bled fluid from new cracks in its skeleton, still bearing the unmoving lump of the other creature across its back.

_What happened?_ Joe wanted to shout. _Where are we going? Did you see Charles? Are the Russians gone? I hope this was all worth it, Cooper!_ _I hope saving your friend was WORTH it!_

Now that he thought about it, it was weird that they just… trusted it.

It was an alien – an alien that, last time he'd checked, had been driven half-crazy by torture. Trusting it implicitly seemed like the sort of idea that might occasionally get people killed. Charles collapsed in a spray of—

He stepped forward, reaching for Cooper's arm.

A helicopter thrummed overhead, making the beech trees shiver. It pulled to a stop ahead of them, hovering, filling their ears with sound. Its doors opened and thick black rappel lines tumbled out.

Soldiers descended.

"This way!" Joe shouted, darting left with Alice.

Martin, on the far side, didn't hear and headed right. And the others—

— _and suddenly he was far away, somewhere else, on the rim of a crater, watching the world burn. He was inside the black spire, attempting to prevent its scarlet radiance from escaping and expanding and lighting up the whole world, but they weren't strong enough, none of them were, even if he'd suddenly noticed a secret window where they could probably make it through—_

He blinked, and almost ran face-first into a tree. Alice pulled him to his feet. "Joe, come on! We're heading to the river!"

_Oh no. No. This can't be happening, not_ now.

He followed Alice down the slope, clutching her hand.

Cooper bellowed behind them. More soldiers were there – the soldiers from the helicopter – but Cooper kicked and slammed a tree into their midst. Dirt showered upward. Suddenly there were no more soldiers. The helicopter whined, a burst of machine-gun-fire lancing the canopy; Cooper zig-zagged, then ripped up a boulder and flung it towards the sky.

The first rock missed. The second didn't. It bounced from the chopper's tail, spinning it sideways, one soldier thrown out the doors, screaming and crashing into the treetops. Metal snapped.

Joe looked away. He realised the new girl was nowhere to be seen.

He realised he'd forgotten her name.

— _he was standing in his mother's bedroom, a short time after she'd passed. Long enough for dust to start collecting on the furniture, but not long enough for his dad to have packed what was left. Jack slept in a different room, now, because this room_ was _her – in the way that sunlight fell across the sheets, in the way the dresses in the cupboard smelled of flowers, in the way her favourite comb lay abandoned on the dresser, a few strands of hair still trapped between its teeth—_

Joe stumbled.

They were at the river. He stood on the bank above twenty yards of rushing water, which presumably joined the lake some distance below. Cary was still… a shell. Preston stepped into the water and was immediately swept off his feet, struggling to find his footing, the rapids foaming and gurgling up to his waist. Cary watched, emotionless.

"We have to cross," Alice said urgently. "Joe, listen to me. I don't know what's up with you but we have to cross the river—"

— _the city smouldered, embers falling, a trio of F-15s sweeping overhead and reflected upside-down from the glass of his cockpit. He knew time was running out, their only chance being to turn the aliens' plan against them which according to everyone wasn't supposed to work – the 'physics' were a problem – but certain people he trusted insisted it was the only way and hey, maybe it was humanity's turn to rip and tear their way into a future which still had them in it—_

He gripped Alice's hand.

He held it, _clutching_ that sensation of skin-on-skin – the last connection keeping him anchored to the real world – and he followed it back to the forest.

The forest.

He couldn't see Cooper anymore.

Couldn't see anyone, apart from Alice. They ran, dripping wet, pushing through the undergrowth. Red light bloomed from a point behind them, then yellow, the trees shining in stark relief, and seconds later there was an almighty _boom_ and chunks of flaming metal tumbled into the birches. It was probably the helicopter. The leaves smouldered.

Joe felt like he was floating.

— _he picked up the comb in his mother's bedroom. Held it up to the light. Took one of the strands of hair and pinched it between his fingers. But almost immediately he felt sick and sad so he dropped the hair and wiped his hands and put the comb in a drawer where no one else would see, and he took one last look at the room – the dust, the warmth, the gentle colours – and he left. He never went back in for a long, long time. Not until—_

He forced himself through the leaves and branches, just walking now, one shoe in front of the other. Left, right, left, right. It was raining. The drops pattered on the leaves, a gentle sound. _How long has it been raining?_

Distantly, he noticed that he wasn't holding Alice's hand.

Joe stopped.

The trees stood, silent and still.

* * *

Rachel approached the waiting army.

The soldiers watched her, prepared but unsure. Helicopters hovered, blasting spotlights in her face.

She covered her eyes and kept walking. Behind the soldiers' line, by the water's edge, she saw a group of teachers, kids, all looking terrified. In the distance, gunfire popped as the US forces engaged the retreating Russian commandos.

She fixed her dad with a diamond-edged stare and walked towards the light.

* * *

The birch trees loomed in every direction, casting prison-bar shadows, the rain drizzling in an eternally-damp sheet as Joe glanced down the hillside.

Alice wasn't there. He'd lost her.

He'd lost all of them.

It was just… him.

He looked around, again and again and again, until the trees were a dizzying emerald blur.

And Joe was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this action sequence is frankly ridiculous but sometimes you need to go AAAALLLLL OUT! There were quite a few disparate ideas I wanted to mash together – 'wouldn't it be interesting to explore consequences of Cary's pyromania?' – 'wouldn't it be exciting if one of the crew got shot?' – 'I wonder if it'd be a cool surprise to spring a bunch of Russian commandos on everyone and Cooper got to SMASH SHIT UP?' – which I then tried to force into a convoluted jigsaw of gradually-increasing catastrophe.
> 
> It worked? I guess? I dunno. This was quite difficult to write.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, anyway. (And I'm sure everyone will be juuuusst fiiiiine.)


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